Life, Death and Dizzy Gillespie
by BJ Thompson
Summary: How Joe Mannix went from private citizen to private detective
1. Part 1

Life, Death and Dizzy Gillespie

by

BJ Thompson

_Part One:_

_Saturday, October 6, 1956/10 PM – Monday, October 8, 1956/8 PM_

He wore his fake, pasted-on politician's smile until she closed the door to his office.

Gliding to the door, he pressed his ear to its window's pebbled surface. He strained to separate the sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor from the rain pelting against the building. The clicking stopped. The elevator's tones echoed in the deserted hallway heralding its arrival and then her departure.

He flicked off the ceiling light and drifted back to his desk in the darkened office. Slumping in his chair, he slipped his lighter and pack of Lucky Strikes out of his coat pocket and lit his fifth cigarette of the night. Exhaling, he blew out his tension. For a couple of puffs he basked in the anonymity of the night.

He switched on the desk lamp and reached inside his desk drawer for a scrap of paper he had received that afternoon. He pulled in another lungful of smoke, exhaled again, and stubbed out the cigarette in a crowded ashtray.

In the pool of light, he contemplated the framed picture of his wife and twin daughters and then, the scrap of paper. His hand hovered over the black rotary phone. The insistent pulse of the rain echoed his heartbeat. Clinching the handset, he dialed the number on the paper.

Without waiting for a greeting, Y. Franklin Leigh, Los Angeles County Deputy District Attorney, said, "She's on her way." Then he jiggled the plunger to clear the phone line so he could dial Delaney's number.

She was suspicious; she didn't trust Leigh. He claimed he had no interest in finding the missing Bryce Hunter films, yet he knew someone who might have them and he was telling her? And how did he know she was interested anyway? Whatever his reason, she'd worry about it later.

She cowered in the doorway of the Hall of Justice's Temple Street exit. She berated herself for not bringing her umbrella. The rain battered her as she peeked around the granite facade in search of a cab.

An older model green Plymouth limped into view; on its roof the taxi light blinked an unknown Morse Code. It contested with the windshield wipers as to which one was more erratic. She thought the driver didn't see her, but the Chess Cab chugged to a stop at the curb.

"The Mayfield," she said as she climbed in and slammed the door. She plucked a cigarette from the pack in her purse. As she searched for matches, a hand reached back from over the front seat and flicked open a silver Zippo lighter. She noticed the air force logo on it.

"Thanks," she said and took a drag and leaned back in the seat.

"Don't you remember me?" The cab driver's voice sounded like a deeper version of a familiar voice she hadn't heard in a while.

She frowned at the eyes looking at her from the rearview mirror. "I'm sorry. Do I know you?"

He switched on the dome light. It shone on a face that raised memories of a tall, graceful boy. She was a senior when he was a freshman, the first freshman in Summer Grove High history to make the varsity basketball team. The youthful smile she remembered had matured into a world-weary grin.

"Joe? Joe Mannix?"

"Hi, Kathy," he said.

"Joe, how are you? The last I heard you were a POW in Korea." She hadn't kept up with local happenings in Summer Grove after she graduated college in 1952.

"Yeah, I did my time." He steered the taxi away from the curb and into the traffic lane. "How's it going with you? What are you doing in Los Angeles?"

"I'm a reporter for the Los Angeles Observer."

"Kathy Bedrosian, girl reporter. Finally made the big time."

"Not really. I'm stuck on the society pages. Weddings, engagements, the latest charity events Dottie Walker's giving."

"At least it's not the Grove Dispatch."

"Yeah, morning frost reports and cows escaping their pasture." Kathy puffed on her cigarette. "I wonder if old man Jenks ever figured out who was letting his cows out."

"I hope not."

She laughed. "Was that you?" She recalled the memories of Summer Grove she had filed away since she had come to Los Angeles six years ago. She didn't miss it. She was always a small town girl with big city ambitions. "So you're driving a cab now. Is this what you've been doing since Korea?"

She spotted his ears turning red. He fidgeted in his seat. The rain beating against the taxi roof covered his momentary silence.

"No, I, um, after the war, I finished my degree in pre-law on the G.I. Bill, and then I realized I didn't want to be a lawyer."

"Why not? I think you would be good at it. Didn't you used to hang around Mr. Kolligian?" She scooted forward and leaned on the back of the front seat.

"Yeah, I did. I was just trying to escape my father's vineyards. Anything was better than digging in the dirt all day. Besides I found out that lawyers spend too much time sitting on their butts and writing and researching and worrying about precedents."

She sensed there was more to his story. Call it her reporter's intuition. Sometimes it's more what you don't say that says it all.

"How long you been in Los Angeles?" Kathy asked.

"A couple of months."

"So what else is going on with you? Got a girl?"

"Not anymore," he said a little too quickly.

"Oh, so there was a girl." She wanted to tease him, but just as quickly she rejected the idea.

He shrugged. "Unlucky in love, lucky in war."

She blew out the smoke and crunched the last of her cigarette in the car door ashtray. "Yeah, I know what you mean."

He eased the cab to the curb of the Mayfield Hotel. The rain had slowed to a mist.

Kathy fumbled in her purse for her wallet. "How much?"

"On the house. For old times' sake."

"That's sweet. You don't have to do that."

"I know. Say maybe we could get together for dinner, talk about Grove High, good times." He patted his pockets for a piece of paper. He reached to tear a piece from his logbook. Kathy removed a black reporter's notebook and a pen from her purse scribbled 'Joe Mannix' on a blank page.

"What's your phone number?"

"KL5-9622. It's the Downtown Y on Hope Street. Leave a message there for me."

"I'll do that. Great to see you, Joe."

"Good to see you too."

Kathy opened the cab door and paused. "Could you do me a favor?" Her eyes darted around the area.

"Sure, anything."

"Hold onto to this for me?" She plucked an envelope from her purse and handed it to him.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Maybe my first page one byline or even better, a Pulitzer Prize." Before Joe could ask her anything further, she sprung from the cab. With a few swift strides she reached the lobby entrance. She spun back to face him."Now you can be sure I'll call you." She smiled at him just before she disappeared into the lobby.

Joe stuffed the envelope into the inside pocket of his bomber jacket and marveled at how fate had brought them back together. He had never mentioned to anyone but his high school buddy, Troy McBride, that he had a crush on Kathy. That is until Jean came along, but that was another memory for another time.

Leigh didn't normally come anywhere near his Hall of Justice office on a Sunday morning. After last night's little trouble, he had to move on this Hunter thing. He removed a torn page from his sport pants pocket and copied the information from it onto another piece of paper. Leigh wanted to pace, but he settled for frowning at his Bulova watch instead. He could still make his tee time, depending on how fast Delaney arrived.

Officially Officer Jerry Delaney worked for the Los Angeles Police Department Central Station Burglary Detail. Unofficially, he worked for Leigh just as he had when he was a Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff. Leigh incurred a few favors to get Delaney transferred to the Whenever he needed information without going through channels, Delaney was his man.

A knock and Delaney entered Leigh's office. He nodded at the Deputy D.A. and waited silently. Leigh wondered if Delaney had more than two suits. Today was suit number one's day. Leigh handed him the slip of paper.

Delaney scanned the information and raised an eyebrow. "Who's Joe Mannix? This got anything to do with that reporter dame I followed last night?"

"Don't worry about last night. I want everything you can find on this guy," Leigh said.

Delaney nodded again and left. Leigh removed the torn page from his pocket and struck a match to it. Laying it in his ashtray he watched the phone number and the name of Joe Mannix burn to ashes.

Peter Gunn sipped his Jim Beam and puffed his Winston's as he lounged at a table near the bar. It was Monday afternoon slow at Mother's. A male and a female were content to toy with their drinks and flirt the rest of their day. Barney, Mother's bartender, washed the shot glasses for the third time.

Gunn didn't believe in having the added expense of an office and a secretary. Most of his clients didn't keep regular office hours anyway. Besides Mother didn't mind him hanging around, and he didn't mind helping her out with her problem customers. She often kidded him that he brought 'class' to her bar.

Gunn half-listened to Edie auditioning a temporary piano player named Hank. Emmett, her regular guy, had a gig in San Francisco for a couple of weeks. Her voice glided over the sound of the piano. Gunn didn't recognize the song, but he had been with her long enough to know the melody fit her voice just right.

A messenger interrupted his reverie. Gunn didn't usually accept his clients via messenger, but when he tapped the open end of the manila envelope on the table, a white envelope containing twenty new one hundred dollar bills fell out. Harold Walker, editor and publisher of the Los Angeles Observer, included his business card with a phone number scrawled on the back. The manila envelope also contained a handwritten police report and a photograph.

He reached for the police report. A missing person – Katherine Bedrosian, five foot eight, 130, brown hair, brown eyes, a reporter for the Observer. Last seen Saturday afternoon. Gunn knew anyone missing any longer than a day or so was either in a hospital or somewhere dead. The odds didn't say much else. He squinted at the photo. Okay looking, not bad, but nothing to turn heads.

"Got a case?" Edie asked. She settled in the chair next to Gunn.

"Yeah, I guess." He handed her the photo. "Harold Walker apparently doesn't like how the LAPD is handling his case."

"What do you think?"

"I think this is a wasted effort."

"No, I mean Hank. You think he'll do?"

Gunn observed the piano player's hands travel over the keyboard.

"He sounds good. What was that last song?"

"One of his originals – 'Dreamsville.' I sorta like it." Edie nestled closer to Gunn. He kissed her neck.

"I sorta like it too." Gunn thumbed through the report for Katherine Bedrosian's home address – Dorset Arms, 1340 Third Street, Apartment 1D. Might be worth stopping by later.

He nuzzled Edie's neck. Yeah, a little later.

Reeves shuffled through the stack of photographs again. He always stopped at the same picture. He twirled in his chair and scowled. Where was that woman? She said she'd be here at 1 PM. He slipped the photo back in the stack.

At the knock at his private entrance, Reeves signaled to Cully Roberts to admit Flora Moore. With her little floral hat perched on her artificially auburn head, she could be mistaken for anybody's mother. That was her power; she looked harmless, but as the gossip columnist for the Observer she wielded power behind the scenes of Los Angeles. Not many people dared to crossed her.

"You said you needed me to translate something," she stated.

Reeves watched her glance around his office, taking it all in. She had never been here before. He could see her reporter's mind cataloging the furnishings. From the latest Herman Miller office sofa Bernie lounged on in the far corner to the modern art hung on the walls that Cully leaned against, she was impressed. That was the effect his wanted.

Reeves handed her a stack of photographs. She frowned as she recognized the reporter's Notehand. "Where'd you get this? Is this Kathy's?"

"Just tell me what it says."

Flora examined the pictures, turning them whichever way she needed to read the notes.

Reeves drummed his fingers. "Well?"

"This is mostly stuff about society parties, engagements, and local gossip."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah, well, a bit of research on the Bryce Hunter murder. Whatever she could find."

"Any mentions of appointments? Film?"

Flora's eyes widened. "Those Bryce Hunter blackmail films? Nothing about that. You know, just the same stuff you could get from reading the papers."

Reeves searched through the stack and yanked out a picture with a single name and phone number.

"Who's this guy?"

"No idea. Never heard her mention his name before."

Reeves studied the photo. Another piece of the puzzle that eluded him.

"We're even, right?" Flora asked. "I mean I know I owe you a lot more. My son, he's doing well in the army."

"I'm sure the judge who sentenced him will be glad to hear that. Boys will be boys." Reeves stood. "I may call on you one more time, Flora. At least until my current problem is settled."

"I can't keep helping you. Blaney may be getting wise."

"Just one more time." He assured her. He cued Cully who already had his hand on the door knob and propelled Flora out of the room.

"I can't think of a lot of reason why she had that guy's name and number written in her notebook," Reeves said.

"Maybe he's her boyfriend," Bernie said.

As usual Reeves ignored any comments from Bernie. "Maybe . . . just maybe. Cully, I want you to go to Bedrosian's apartment and look for more notebooks. Bernie, find out what you can about –" Reeves picked up the picture and handed it to him. "Joe Mannix. If he has anything to do with the films, it won't be long before he goes for it."

"What's with the Bedrosian case?" Gunn asked.

Pete Gunn had once again entered his office without knocking. Detective Sergeant Lou Jacoby wanted to put his head down and scream, but with his desk heaped with files, there was no room. By mid-afternoon he had managed to slog through into a few of the cold cases he had been assigned.

"I'm trying to work here," he said from behind the stacks of paper. "Besides, you should be talking to Missing Persons. Remember I'm in homicide." Everybody was on edge about that missing reporter. Jacoby rejoiced that he was working on a project for the Captain.

"Just trolling for information."

"Go troll in Missing Persons."

"We both know how fast a missing person can turn up dead."

"What do you know that I don't?" Jacoby fiddled with the heaps of papers and files. Gunn picked up a random file; Jacoby snatched it away from him.

"The odds. My, my, a little testy." Gunn said as he propped a hip on the edge of Jacoby's desk.

"Listen, Pete –"

Jacoby was interrupted by a knock at his door. Captain Loomis, his boss, stuck his head in.

"Jacoby, drop those unsolved cases I wanted you to take a crack at. They found the Bedrosian girl's body at the Sheila, Room 323. We're keeping a lid on this. Get there before the reporters find out. It's now officially a homicide."

Jacoby glared at Gunn. "On it, Captain." He grabbed his fedora. "I suppose you want to come along?" he asked Gunn.

"If it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"You've already been that. C'mon." Jacoby led the way out of his office.

A seedy brick and tarnished brass 15-story facade towered over the weather-beaten and torn brown canopy covering the lobby entrance. Enough of the light bulbs on the hotel sign were either busted or missing in action. The marble floor in lobby had enough wax buildup to qualify as a skating rink.

Jacoby flashed his badge at the officer posted next to the elevator. "You coming?" he asked Gunn.

"I'll be up later." Gunn surveyed the lobby. Drunks were passed out in the ratty, overstuffed leather chairs. The desk clerk reading the paper didn't seem to notice them or anyone else.

"Suit yourself." The elevator doors closed. Gunn waited for the elevator to signal the next floor before he turned to the desk clerk.

Gunn cleared his throat. Without looking up the clerk leaned back to grab a key from the rack behind him. He stopped when he got a better look who was standing in front of him.

"Yeah, what do you want?"

"Information. Who was registered to Room 323?"

"You're not a cop. You don't dress like a cop."

"My tailor will be flattered." Gunn pulled out a five dollar bill and laid it on the desk. "An answer."

"The clerk's hands twitched as he looked at the cash. "Nobody."

"Nobody? What do you mean 'nobody'? Is that what you told the police?"

"Yep, according to my register nobody was registered to 323."

"Then how did her body get in there?"

"Sometimes people leave without turning in their key. The boss don't want to rekey the lock just because somebody walks off with it. Most times it's accidental. Sometimes we get the key back in the mail in a couple of days." The clerk shrugged 'like I care'. "Never got back the key to 323." He reached for the money. Gunn clamped his hand over it.

"Okay, then who was it registered to the last time you knew it had a key?"

"Jeez, I don't know. The register doesn't go back that far."

Gunn pulled the fiver out of the reach of the clerk. "I'm not asking your register. I'm asking you."

"I'm not supposed to know, but the boss is the only one who has the key to that room. "

"Who's your boss?"

"Macklin Reeves."

"What else goes on around here you're not supposed to notice?"

"Please, Mister, I've already said too much."

"I'll find out anyway. All I have to do is I say got it from you whether I did or not."

The desk clerk paled. "Okay, a lot of gambling. There's a bookie joint in the basement. Some of the larger rooms have floating poker games. I'm not supposed to know."

Gunn handed him another five. "I didn't get it from you." He sauntered over to the elevator and pushed the up button The drunks hadn't stirred.

By the time Gunn reach Room 323 the investigation was in full swing. He recognized the lab guy as Ray Pinker, good man. The photographer was a new face. With those two and Jacoby crawling over the crime scene, there wasn't much room for Gunn. He relaxed in the doorway and watched. He had learned from experience not to smoke at Jacoby's crime scenes.

Room 323 held a chair, a dresser, a sink, and a barely queen-sized bed with a dead female body. She laid face up staring at nothing. Her lipstick was smeared creating weird shapes around her lips. On the floor to her right was a crumpled handkerchief and her purse. He sniffed a sweet odor – chloroform for sure.

Gunn admired Jacoby as he watched him mull over the crime scene. He was like a bloodhound loose on the scent. Jacoby stepped back into the hallway while the SID team finished up.

"So what'd you find out?" Jacoby asked.

"About what?"

Jacoby rolled his eyes. "So you're not gonna share your talk with the desk clerk with me?"

"Nothing you don't already know."

"Try me."

While Gunn relayed his conversation with the desk clerk, Ray handed Jacoby a notebook after he had finished dusting for prints. Jacoby studied it as he continued to listen.

"Can you make any sense of this?" Jacoby asked Gunn. He held up a page of hieroglyphics.

Gunn moved closer. "Yeah, it's shorthand. You know, secretaries use it to take dictation."

"Yes, I know, but can you read it?"

"Do I look like I've ever worked in an office?"

Jacoby flipped through the pages of the notebook again. He stopped and removed a pencil from his pocket. "Look, a page's been torn out." He rubbed the graphite on the blank page that came after the missing one. A name and a phone number emerged. He copied it into his crime scene notes.

"I need a translator for the rest of this stuff. Do you know somebody who can read this?"

"I'm more than happy to assist the in anyway that I can." Gunn reached for the book. Jacoby jerked it away.

"This is evidence. Don't lose it or I'll be breaking rocks at San Quentin with you right next to me."

"Why, Sergeant, I'll treat this like it was the Hope Diamond."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of Sheba."

When they reached the lobby, reporters swarmed Jacoby. They shouted their questions. Each one Jacoby answered with a "no comment" or "still under investigation."

Gunn stepped back into the shadows. He lit his first cigarette in what seemed like hours. He scanned the crowd of reporters. John Blaney stationed himself on the edge of the crowd scribbling in his notebook. Gunn tapped him on the shoulder and nodded him away from the crowd.

"Need a favor," Gunn said. He removed the small notebook from his coat pocket. "Can you give me quick read on this?" He handed it to him.

Blaney rifled through it. Gunn had time to finish his cigarette.

"Mostly society gossip except for a few notes on the Bryce Hunter murder," Blaney said. "This is Kathy's. Where'd you get it? At the crime scene? Can I get an exclusive?"

"I'll get with you later." Gunn put the notebook back in this pocket and trailed the other reporters out of the building.

Art Malcolm didn't know why he chose to play half-court basketball with Joe Mannix in the late afternoon on Mondays and Fridays. He jumped to block Joe's shot only to feel his hand hit vacant air. Joe faked him out again and dribbled past him to make a layup. He was working his ass off and Joe looked like he was taking a walk in the park.

"So tell . . . about this girl . . . you met?" Art huffed. He hated feeling the sweat drip down his back.

"I didn't _meet_ her. I know her from high school."

"And you got her phone . . . number, right?"

"Wrong. I gave her mine."

Art drooped to one knee. "You gave her yours? How are you going to call her?"

"She'll call me." Joe bounced the ball a few times. Art appreciated the extra seconds to catch his breath.

"What if she doesn't call?" Art stood up signaling he was ready for his next humiliation.

"Art, she works at the Observer. All I have to do is call the paper. You gonna play ball or worry about my love life?"

"I was just asking because I thought maybe you'd like to go out on a double date with me and Helen. We're going to go see that new Robert Wagner movie, _Between Heaven and Hell_, next weekend." Art moved in rhythm to Joe bouncing the ball.

"I thought Helen didn't like war movies."

"She doesn't, but she thinks Robert Wagner is 'cute.'"

Joe dribbled and backed into Art, bumping him closer to the hoop. Their rubber soled shoes squeaked and thumped on the worn wooden floor. Joe twisted left then right and caught Art leaning the wrong way. Joe's wrists flicked with a jump shot. Art marveled as the ball sailed over his head and into the basket. He shook his head.

"Okay, I give. By the way, did you put the paperwork in for the LAPD?" Art retrieved the ball and lobbed it to Joe.

"Do I have to say this again? Why on earth would I want to be a cop?" Joe asked as he toed the free throw line.

"You could do worse. In fact, you already are. Since when is being a cab driver a good career move?" Art watched Joe sink the basket – H.

Art had sensed something was wrong when Joe returned from Costa Verde. He noted Joe's weight loss and Joe had let it slip that he wasn't sleeping well. And his tan from Costa Verde was almost gone. Joe still smiled and joked and talked, but he rarely commented on Costa Verde. Art had expected to hear about his daring exploits a mercenary pilot, but all Joe had said was that it was a dirty, little war in a dirty, little country.

"Wait a minute; I'm doing Mac a favor. He's short a driver." Joe bounced the ball twice as was his routine. "Besides I'm a lousy pistol shot."

Art frowned. "Don't worry about that. Sgt. Davis is the marksmanship instructor at the academy; he'll sharpen up that eye. At least put in the paperwork. The department's hiring again. You'll know in a couple months. They give preference to veterans. At least, it's a steady job. You could settle down."

"Like you? No, thanks." Joe bounced the ball again and let it fly. He missed.

Art blinked. Wasn't often that Joe missed a free throw. He grabbed the ball and traded places at the free throw line.

"Mercenary isn't your style, Joe." Art launched a shot that was doomed from the moment it left his hands.

"And chasing pickpockets, burglars and drunks is?"

Art shook his head. Joe's last missed free throw might be the only time he'd get to beat him. Otherwise he'd have to wait until Joe broke both his hands and both his legs. Joe shifted to a left-handed shot. Swish – O.

"Promise me you'll at least think about it." Art tossed the ball back to Joe.

"I'll always think about it." Joe began his free throw routine again.

Jacoby stood in the entrance to the basketball court at the Downtown YMCA. He watched Officer Art Malcolm and another man play half-court ball. Obviously Malcolm was not in the same league as the man he was playing with.

"Are you Joe Mannix?" Jacoby asked.

Malcolm and the other player swiveled to face the questioner.

"Who are . . ." the man asked.

"Sergeant Jacoby, what are you doing here?" Art asked.

"Malcolm." Jacoby nodded and jerked his thumb toward Joe. "Is he Joe Mannix?"

"Yes," Malcolm answered.

Jacoby stepped closer. "I'd like to ask you a couple of questions."

"About what?" Mannix pitched the ball from one hand to the other.

"Katherine Bedrosian."

"Kathy? What about her?" He stopped tossing the basketball.

"I need you to come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere until you tell me what this is about!"

"Joe, not here."

Jacoby knew Malcolm recognized the look on his face.

"Art, what do you mean 'not here.'? What's this about?"

Jacoby sighed. "Katherine Bedrosian is dead."

The basketball tumbled from Mannix's hand. "Dead . . . no . . .I just . . . the other day." Thump. "She can't be . . ." Thump. The color drained from his face. "Not Kathy." Thump. The basketball rolled away into a corner.

"Get him to the station, Georgia Street," Jacoby said. His eyes followed Malcolm as he lead his friend off the basketball court. This was the rotten part of being a policeman. Maybe he'd take Pete Gunn's advice someday. Maybe it was time to stop telling people that someone they knew was dead.

Jacoby trudged down the hallway. Long day and even longer night. He glanced up at ceiling. He hated that the new Central Receiving Hospital would be on Sixth when it was completed. Having it on the second floor of the Georgia Street Police Station made it easier to interview victims, witnesses, and suspects who needed medical attention. The only good thing was that the detective squad would get new offices upstairs. Detective sergeants, like him, didn't usually rate a private office, but everybody knew he was on his way to lieutenant. Besides you couldn't have shoehorned another desk into the detectives' squad room.

As he turned the corner, he saw Art Malcolm with Joe Mannix seated on the bench across from his office door. Mannix was as white as a sheet. Maybe he shouldn't have taken him to the morgue to ID Katherine Bedrosian's body. Her managing editor had supplied the next of kin information.

He pondered the young men. The Mannix guy wore a brown leather jacket over his sweats. Malcolm, similarly garbed, perched like he was on guard duty. Jacoby opened the door to his office and signaled to Mannix to go in. He closed the door and turned to Malcolm.

"What do you know about him?" Jacoby asked.

"I know I wouldn't be standing here now if it wasn't for him."

"Yeah, how so?"

"Got me and a few other guys out of a Korean POW camp."

"The hero type?"

"No, regular guy. I've been trying to talk him into taking the exam for policeman."

"You think he could cut it?"

"Not only could Joe Mannix cut it, he could slice it and dice it. He's the type of guy Chief Parker's looking for."

"What's he doing driving a cab?"

"He came back from Costa Verde. Hired out as a mercenary pilot."

"Flyboy? And he's working as a cab driver?"

Malcolm shrugged. "He's keeping his options open."

Jacoby arched his brow in disbelief.

"He's okay. You don't think he had anything to do with it, do you?"

"You know as well as I do, everybody's a suspect in a murder case until proven otherwise."

"You might as well think I'm a suspect too."

"What makes you think I don't?" Jacoby pushed into his office. He recognized that Joe Mannix had a good friend in Malcolm.

Mannix sagged in the chair in front of the sergeant's desk. Pete Gunn discretely leaned against the file cabinet at the other end of the office. He was unhurried as he puffed on his smoke. He barely nodded to Jacoby, code that he'd stay out of the questioning.

Jacoby figured Joe Mannix couldn't have been more than twenty-five, twenty-six years old. A curl of hair hung over his forehead. Jacoby caught a whiff of sweat-soaked clothing. A sadness around his eyes, the leather jacket with air force unit patches on it. A POW, probably a tough son of a bitch. Had to be to impress Malcolm. A flyboy, huh. Jacoby was in the MPs himself. If he was gonna die, he didn't want to have far to fall.

"Would you mind talking to me about the last time you saw Katherine Bedrosian?" Jacoby asked. He slipped behind his newly uncluttered desk.

"She was a fare."

"She wasn't in your logbook. Where'd you take her?"

"The Mayfield."

Jacoby tensed The Mayfield wasn't where her body was found.

"Do you know why she wanted to go there? Was she meeting someone?"

"I don't know."

Jacoby peeked at Gunn to gauge his reaction. Gunn tilted his head and raised his brows.

"Where'd you pick her up?"

"The Hall of Justice."

"What time?"

"A little after 10 P.M."

Not a lot open at the Hall of Justice at 10 P.M. on a Saturday night. She had to be meeting someone. Jacoby made a mental note to check with the deputies at the Hall of Justice. That time of night you had to sign in and out. "You knew she was a reporter?" Jacoby asked.

"Yeah, she told me."

"Did she seem worried, nervous, anxious during the trip? Anything you can tell us could help us find out who did this."

"I don't know anything." Joe squeezed his jacket pockets. He pulled out his pack of Kools. "Got a match?" he asked.

Gunn tossed Joe a pack of matches and Jacoby shoved an ashtray toward him.

"Thanks."Joe inhaled the smoke.

"Did she tell you why she was going there? Who she was going to meet?"

"Nothing like that. We talked about a bit about home. I thought maybe we could get together. I gave her my phone number."

"Yeah, that's how we found you." Jacoby didn't mention that the page was torn out of her reporter's notebook. "Anything else you can think of?"

Joe shook his head.

Jacoby pushed a business card toward him. "If you think of anything else no matter how unimportant, give me a call. You can go."

Joe snatched the card, stood and crushed his cigarette in the ashtray. He glared at Gunn and left the room.

"What do you think?" Jacoby asked.

Gunn had already filled in Jacoby on Blaney's translation of the Bedrosian notebook. So she just wrote Mannix's name and number in it so she could contact him later. Why? A date? "He's hiding something though I can't imagine what."

"Yeah, well, unfortunately, I don't have the manpower to have him followed."

"What about his buddy? You could use him."

"Good idea. I'll mention it to Malcolm. You know, make it unofficially official."

"While I take care of the officially unofficial?"

"What's on your mind, Pete?" Jacoby sighed.

"Nothing official." Gunn whistled his way out of the office.

No sooner than he shut the door to his room, Joe slipped the envelope from his inside coat pocket. He rested on the edge of his unmade bed and opened it. A ticket to a Dizzy Gillespie concert at the Hollywood Bowl, terrace box seats, Tuesday, tomorrow night.

He tried to get the image out of his mind of Kathy's lifeless body covered by a white sheet. He preferred to remember that last time she smiled at him and said she'd call him, that last moment before she entered into the Mayfield lobby and stepped into something she couldn't handle.

He shifted and kicked at a lone shoe on the floor.

When he'd reached into his jacket for his cigarettes in Jacoby's office, he'd felt the envelope rub against his sweatshirt. He'd stopped breathing long enough to make the decision not to tell the cops he had it. The envelope was Kathy talking to him.

He scanned the small desk next to his bed for matches. Before he realized it, he had smoked three cigarettes in a row while staring at the ticket in his hand. Why did he even think this had anything to do with her death? She didn't want it with her when she was going to meet someone at the Mayfield. But why? What's Dizzy Gillespie got to do with this? Was she meeting someone at the concert? Or did she like Dizzy Gillespie?

The tiny room was thick with smoke. As usual he opened his window to let the smoke-scented air out. He gazed at his stellar view of a brick wall.

A corner of his room held two boxes of law reference books given to him by Mr. Kolligian and his basketball and football trophies from college. When he returned from Costa Verde, he retrieved the boxes from Art's garage and wondered why he had held on to its contents. This stuff reminded him of what he could have been versus what he was – a hack driver. He flicked the butt out of the window toward the brick wall.

He didn't have any idea about what to do next except attend the concert and see if anything happened. Probably nothing. Who was he kidding? He didn't know the first thing about investigating a murder.

He lit another cigarette. He smoked too much and kept promising himself he'd quit, but not today. He needed something to hold on to. He'd quit smoking after he'd found Kathy's killer.

He'd better get a move on. He had to shower, shave and get dressed. He still had a cab to drive.

The End of Part 1


	2. Part 2

_Part Two:_

_Tuesday, October 9, 1956/10 AM – Wednesday, October 10, 1956/7 PM_

Nothing like starting your morning with a little Breaking & Entering. Gunn didn't know what he was searching for, but it never hurt to look. He removed a set of master keys from his coat pocket. He matched a master key with the name on the door lock. As he pushed the key into the lock, the door swung open. Katherine Bedrosian's small apartment looked like a newspaper photo of a future Southern California earthquake.

He inched through the mess. Now and then he righted a chair or checked under a pile of books or clothing. He briefly searched the bathroom and saw some of the same beauty products from Edie's bathroom – Noxema, cotton balls, whatever women used on themselves to be beautiful.

He drifted to the tiny kitchen. Not much in the little pantry and nothing in the small gas oven. The fridge contained a half-filled quart bottle of milk, containers of mustard, mayo, and Russian salad dressing, and a water-filled ice cube tray. The freezer compartment was jammed with Swanson TV dinners.

Gunn stopped to think. As a reporter, she kept notes, a lot of notes. He looked around again. No little black reporter's notebooks. Maybe she kept them at work or maybe he was too late. Who got here before him? He reached in his suit pocket for his cigarettes. He flicked his lighter – the ice cube tray!

He whipped around to the fridge. Why was the ice cube tray in that part of the fridge? He sprang to the freezer. He began removing the TV dinners and shaking the boxes. The third box was the charm. He tipped it and a black notebook slipped out. The pages were ice-encrusted and written in a similar type of short hand he'd seen in her other notebook. Cause for a trip to see Blaney and to check in with Harold Walker.

Officer Jerry Delaney scrambled up the stairs to the coroner's inquest room on the third floor of the Hall of Justice. It was usually bare of people on Tuesday afternoon. Leigh was waiting on him.

"I got that info you wanted on Joe Mannix." Delaney pulled out his notebook.

"Joseph Ricardo Mannix, born August15th, 1932 in Summer Grove, California, only child of Stefan and Davita Mannix, grape farmers. Graduated Summer Grove High in 1950."

Delaney figured that's the connection between Mannix and Bedrosian. Leigh had him get background information on her too. Maybe he was her old boyfriend.

"Went to Western Pacific University on a basketball scholarship. Joined the air force in 1951 as a pilot. Sent to Korea later that year. Flew F-86 Sabre jets with the 335th Fighter Interceptor Squadron, Suwon Air Base, Korea. Shot down once and injured while ejecting from his plane. After he recuperated in Japan he was returned to duty and this is the weird part. About a month later he wound up in a Korean POW camp, Camp Five, commonly referred to as Changju. Word is that he volunteered for some kind of secret mission into North Korea and got caught. Led an escape of six prisoners from the camp. Mustered out of the air force, returned to Western Pacific, got his degree in pre-law last year. Rumored to have spent some time in Costa Verde as a pilot for the rebel forces. Last few months he's been driving a cab for the Chess Cab Company and living at the Downtown Y. No warrants or traffic tickets." Delaney looked up from his notes.

"You found all that out in a couple of days?"

Delaney smiled and snapped his notebook closed. "I got friends in low places."

"Sounds like a boy scout."

"Say, is he connected to the Bedrosian case?" Delaney waited for a reaction. He wasn't sure Leigh picked up on the Summer Grove connection.

Leigh cleared his throat. "What makes you say that?"

Delaney watched him start fiddling with his tie. "Just wondering." He waited. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"I'll tell what you need to know when you need to know it." Leigh adjusted his tie again. "I want you to follow him when you can. Check on him, see what he's up to."

"I can call in sick a couple of days if it's important."

"No, don't do that. Just keep him in your sights. If in the course of your duties, you happen to find yourself in his vicinity, so much the better. Let me know if he contacts anybody 'interesting'."

Delaney knew that was Leigh's way of saying somebody important or somebody criminal.

"Anybody in particular?"

"You know who I mean."

Delaney did. "You got it."

"Thank you for your thoroughness."

"You know who to call." Delaney stepped into the hallway.

"There is one other thing." Leigh pointed to a seat. "What do you know about the Bryce Hunter case?"

Gunn dropped his smoke to the ground as he entered the Los Angeles Observer Building on West First. He likened the stone facade to a monument, a monument to the Walkers, of which Harold Walker, publisher, was the latest in a line of civic-minded hucksters. If it wasn't for the Walkers, Los Angeles might still be full of adobe ranch houses. As it was it was full of snakes.

The elevator let him off on the top floor. Though it was mid-afternoon and the evening edition had already gone to press, the vast room was noisy with the sound of clacking typewriters. He searched for Blaney in a sea of desks. Blaney saw him first.

"Hey, Pete, got that exclusive for me?" he asked.

Gunn cruised over to his desk and slipped the notebook from his coat. "Give me a read on this. Should have information on Bryce Hunter case. I'll meet you later at Jacoby's office."

"Sure, Pete." Blaney took the notebook and hid it under a pile of papers on his desk.

Pete threaded his way through the remaining reporters' desk to Harold Walker's glass-enclosed office. His secretary stopped him.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No, but he'll see me." Pete's eyes locked on Walker through the glass. The pin-striped dark blue business suit, requisite white silk shirt and tastefully matching blue tie covered Walker's well-padded body. Nothing covered the top of his head; gray fringed around his ears and the back of his head.

He was in conference with a couple of his stooges. Nobody Pete recognized. Walker dismissed them and came to the door.

"That's alright, Miss Fountaine, I'll see the gentleman. Hold my calls." He waved Pete into his office and returned to his seat behind his desk.

"I don't like you just showing up here. I gave you my private number for a reason."

"Just happened to be in the neighborhood."

"Next time not here."

"Just because I accepted your money doesn't mean I accepted all your terms."

"Miss Bedrosian's case, unfortunately, has become a murder investigation. I meant to call you and terminate your services."

Pete pulled an envelope from his pocket and tossed it onto Walker's desk. "Here's your fee back."

Walker scowled at the envelope. "You can keep it. For your trouble."

"That's petty cash to you. What I want to know is why you hired me in the first place? And what did you know about what Katherine Bedrosian was investigating?"

"My motives are none of your business."

"Does it have to do with the Bryce Hunter sex films?"

Walker blanched. "Of course not. What reason would I have . . ."

"I think you hired me because you found out that Bedrosian was looking into the Hunter case. Maybe she said something that alerted you she was on to something. She had managed to do something no one else had – find the Hunter films. That scared you."

Walker fumbled for a button on his desk. The curtains slithered on their tracks closing Walker's office from public view. He edged toward floor-to-ceiling window and the view of downtown Los Angeles in all its smog-filled glory.

"My wife," he half-whispered.

"What?"

Walker cleared his throat. "My wife is on one of the reels."

Pete digested his admission.

"I had an 'indiscretion' a few years back. Dottie, my wife, was livid, so to pay me back she had an affair of her own. With this Hunter fellow. But one of his other clients killed him before he could start blackmailing us. Miss Bedrosian managed to do something no one else had done. She found a source for the films. She didn't know anything about Dottie being a participant. She came to me asking if I'd be willing to pay for the films. I said if they were authentic, maybe a deal could be arranged. That's all she needed to know. I didn't think it would lead to her murder. When she didn't report for work on Monday morning, I panicked."

"So you really didn't want me to find her as much as you wanted to find the film."

"Yes."

"One of the reels has been recovered. Your wife is not on it."

Walker sighed. "You've seen it? Who has it?"

"The police."

"What are they doing with it?"

"For right now, nothing. They're sitting on it."

"How can I convince you to continue looking for the films?"

"Next time, tell me the truth." Pete pocketed the envelope. "I'll be in touch."

Joe Mannix arrived early evening at the Hollywood Bowl. Kathy's ticket was for a terrace box seat to the center right of the stage. He settled in as the crowd thickened with jazz buffs. The cloudy mess above him was threatening rain. He checked his watch. The concert start was running late. Waiting for the stragglers, he guessed. The couple to his right poured over the program. A man in a Homburg and a business suit to his left was one of the late comers. No one else joined Joe in the box seat.

He couldn't focus on the music; all he could do was grip the railing, wait and smoke. The intermission was a blur. The concert, a couple of hours long, was a like a dream, a bad dream. When the last note of the music faded in the darkness he was left with one thought: Kathy's ticket to a Dizzy Gillespie concert was just a ticket. He crumpled the ticket in his pocket and tossed his empty cigarette pack to the ground. It was about 10:30 PM. He had wasted enough time on this. He stomped to his cab.

A man in a cheap suit and a newsboy cap grabbed the handle of his cab door. "Man, are you're a life saver."

"Yeah, where to?" Jo asked in a monotone voice.

The passenger slouched into the back seat. "The Comanche."

The Comanche on Central and Fifth was on the edge of the downtown industrial area, a blue collar bar. Joe knew of a couple of other places that might suit this guy better, but he kept his mouth shut. He penciled in the time in his log and flipped the flag down on the meter.

"Got a smoke?" Joe asked as he pulled into the traffic tangling its way out of the Bowl parking lot.

"Don't smoke."

Joe wished he hadn't smoked up his whole pack. That wasn't the only thing he had wasted this night. He concentrated on his driving. After this fare he'd stop by the Buck to get a pack of Kools and check with the Duchess on whether he was filling in for Davey this Friday. Joe heard his passenger jostling around like he was trying to get comfortable.

"You okay?" Joe asked.

The passenger leaned forward. "Yeah. Did you heard about that dame reporter that got killed?"

"You knew her?" Why this guy was talking to him about Kathy?

"Nope, just saw it in the paper. I wonder what she was doing snooping around."

"Who says she was snooping?" Joe glanced in his rearview mirror to catch a glimpse of the man's face. The passenger glared out of the rear window and then faced front.

"Why else would she be hanging around Hotel Sheila? Yeah, reporters must think they're bulletproof or something. You don't happen to be associated with the Observer, are you?"

"Me?" Joe stiffened.

"Just asking." the passenger said.

Joe clutched the steering wheel. He only read the papers if someone left them at Clifton's while he was having breakfast. So it had been in the newspapers that Kathy's body had been found at the Sheila. His head swirled with questions. The Sheila? Jacoby didn't mention that. That dump! How did she get there? He dropped her off at the Mayfield.

Before he could make a complete stop at the curb, the passenger was out of the cab. He tossed a five dollar bill at Joe and dashed into the bar.

Joe plucked the money from the seat; he'd noted the time in his log. His eyes lingered on the bar entrance. Could be a coincidence, but his gut was telling him otherwise. Still.

He needed to get going. Something else he hadn't told Art about was sometimes he filled in as a bouncer at a bar called the Buck, short for Buckingham. He earned a little extra change and Mac didn't mind. Besides Joe enjoyed the people there. They accepted the face he wanted to show them and didn't ask questions. He had stumbled onto this place when one of his late night fares from the British consulate invited him in to taste a bit of Great Britain in the Colonies.

The interior, bedecked with the flags of the Commonwealth, welcomed you with a lit fire.

The bar stools were covered in richly padded oxblood leather as were the cushioned seat backs and booths that covered the far wall. Round tables with chairs dotted the open space.

Behind the bar, Neil, usually welcomed patrons with a "G'day. What's your pleasure?" Standing a couple inches shorter than Joe, Neil's blonde hair contrasted with the dark walnut paneling of the liquor shelves behind him. On the few really cold days in Los Angeles, he favored his left leg. Old war wound, he claimed.

Like everywhere else on a Tuesday night, the crowd was thin. The Duchess camped in her usual spot in the corner booth at the end of the bar. She was ever vigilant to her customers like a sheep dog protecting her flock. She motioned to him to her.

"Joseph," she said.

"Evening, Duchess."

"What brings you here tonight?" Despite all the British trappings, the Duchess spoke with an American flavor to her accent.

"Thought I'd check and see if you need me this weekend, get some cigarettes, and something to eat."

"Maybe Saturday night, depends on the wind, you know."

"Okay, I'll check again later in the week." As he passed the kitchen on the way to the cigarette machine, Ruby, the Jamaican cook asked, "Your usual?"

"Surprise me," Joe said. Even when he wasn't hungry the aroma from the her kitchen always enticed him into ordering the pub grub.

He sunk his quarters into the machine and pulled the Kool's knob. He opened the pack and plucked a cigarette out. Seemed like forever since he'd had a smoke. He checked his jacket pocket. Not again. He felt the hole. Got get that fixed.

The parking lot was encased in darkness relieved only by a couple feeble lights on either end. As the backup bouncer, he regularly cruised it a few times a night to prevent theft from the patron's cars.

"What the ─" Joe dashed and yanked a body out of his cab. "hell . . ."

Joe saw the man's arm cock back. He ducked and blocked the right fist. Behind him he heard the rustle of clothing and an explosion in his head. Through the haze of pain, Joe saw two men towering over him. One guy in his thirties and the other looked just old enough to have just made eighteen.

"What gives?" Joe coughed.

"Don't play dumb." The older and taller of the two hoisted Joe to his feet, slammed him against the cab bouncing his head off the side mirror. Joe slumped, then suddenly straightened up and roundhouse punched his assailant in the stomach. The big man staggered back a step and took a swing. Joe blocked the punch with his left arm and right crossed the man's face in. He struck again before the big man could recover. The younger man grabbed his arms and pinned them to his sides.

Joe strained to wiggle into a stance to throw the punk. The big man recovered quickly and began body blows while his partner tightened his grip on Joe's arms.

"Where is it?" the big man asked.

The punk let go and Joe collapsed to the ground, doubling over and gasping for breath.

"I'm not going to ask again."

"Don't know . . . you're talking about."

"He said he doesn't know."

The attackers spun to see a pistol aimed at them and hear the click of the hammer being pulled back.

"Step away. Move!" The man waved the men off. "Tell Reeves he doesn't know anything."

"Listen, Gunn . . ."

"No, you listen. Tell Reeves to lay off."

The younger man kicked at Joe as he passed. "Next time." The big man straightened his tie and sauntered past Gunn. Gunn stared him down, keeping the pistol pointed at his chest. He waited until the men drove off.

Gunn knelt beside Joe. "Can you walk?"

"I'm alright . . . just a little winded." Joe winced and spit the asphalt from his mouth.

Gunn hooked a hand under his arm and lifted Joe to his feet. Joe leaned on the front fender of his cab.

"Who were those guys?" Joe wheezed.

"Ever heard of Macklin Reeves?" Gunn replaced his pistol in his holster and buttoned his coat. Joe shook his head.

"Businessman, connected to the Mob through Victor Fortune, though neither of them will admit it. Pretends to be an upstanding citizen. Those guys work for him. The big one is Cully Roberts. The youngster is Bernie Moss. Whether you're aware of him or not, Reeves sat next to you at the Bowl. The guy in the box seat to your left."

"So what? What does he want with me?" Joe struggled to remember."The guy in the hat?"

"Yeah, the guy in the hat. Those guys are his hired muscle. They rough you up or kill you depending on whether Reeves needs you dead or alive."

"What do they want with me?"

"I have no idea. I was hoping you could tell me. Obviously, Reeves thinks you have something that belongs to him."

"Weren't you in Jacoby's office? You following me?" Joe asked.

"Good thing I was. Peter Gunn. I'm a private investigator. You can pay me back by telling me what you were doing at the concert."

"I like Dizzy Gillespie."

"Yeah, right." Gunn helped Joe into the Buck. The Duchess's office was on the right near the end of the hallway. She saw Gunn dragging Joe into her office.

"I won't ask the obvious question. Just give me the answer," she said.

"Cully and Bernie."

She examined Joe's face. He jerked away at her touch. "Not very professional." She stepped into the hallway. "Ruby, bring the first aid kit." She faced Gunn. "Doing your white knight act again, Peter?"

"Annie," Gunn acknowledged.

Joe felt a chill between the two. Gunn looked as uncomfortable as he could get in a two-hundred dollar suit. He moved aside when Ruby entered.

"Just throw some band-aids on him. He's not at death's door," Gunn said.

"Why don't we step outside and give Ruby room to work," the Duchess suggested.

Joe stretched his neck to see around Ruby. Gunn and the Duchess strolled in the direction of the parking lot.

"What's with them?" Joe asked.

"Used to be an item until Edie Hart came along," Ruby said. She cut several strips of tape and attached them to the edge of the desk. She soaked a piece of gauze in alcohol to wipe away the blood on his face. Ruby applied Mercurochrome to a cut. Joe flinched from the sting.

"Ow! Gunn and the Duchess!"

"She's a woman and he's a man. What's so new about that?"

In a few minutes Ruby had bandaged the cuts on his face and swabbed his scraped knuckles with more Mercurochrome. Ruby poked at his ribs; Joe gasped. "Can't do nothing for that. Just have to let the ribs heal on their own." She clicked the kit closed.

"Hey, you're pretty good at this."

"Used to be a nurse," Ruby said. She stepped out into the corridor. "He'll live," she said to the Duchess as she and Gunn returned.

"You're done for tonight," Gunn said.

"No arguments, Joseph. I'll understand if I don't see you Saturday."

"I'll be okay." Joe rose slowly from the chair.

"You've got a couple of hoods looking to hurt you. I haven't got all night to follow you around. You're done. Head for the garage. I'll be right behind you."

Joe watched him walk across Commonwealth Street and get in a pale blue Thunderbird convertible. Being a private cop must pay more than what Art was making. He had never seen a LAPD officer driving one of those.

Gunn followed Joe to the Chess Cab Company garage on Lucas and Third. He hung far back, trying to determine if Cully and Bernie were still in pursuit. Clear so far. Reeves' boys must have slunk back to their boss. He checked his watch. Only 11:30 PM; he still might be able to catch Edie at Mother's.

He watched Joe slip the taxi into an open bay inside the garage. Gunn parked in the same visitor spot he had earlier in the evening when he blessed the dispatcher with a ten spot to find out where Mannix was.

The garage was littered with cars that destiny had saved from the junkyard. A couple of heaps were for parts; others should have been. Gunn saw a work light glaring from underneath the frame of another vehicle. A man limped up the pit stairs. He wore soiled gray coveralls and wiped his hands on a dirtier rag.

"What are you doing back so early?" the man asked. He squinted at Joe's face. "What happened to you? Somebody try to rob you?"

"No, nothing like that." Gunn answered for Joe.

"Mac Wagner, owner and chief mechanic, Peter Gunn," Joe introduced. "He helped me out."

"Helped you out?" Mac stepped closer to inspect Joe's injuries. Between the swollen lip, the band-aids, and asphalt scratches, "What happened?"

"Heard of Macklin Reeves?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, he owns a lot of buildings downtown."

"He thinks I have something that belongs to him."

"Like what?"

"That's what we're about to find out," Gunn said.

While Joe brought Mac up to speed on his night, Gunn launched his search with the trunk. He found nothing in the there but the jack, the spare and trash. Gunn moved to the passenger seat. "Which side did he sit on?"

"The right side," Joe answered.

Gunn noted the ashes in the door tray. He scanned the cab interior and cursed. "Don't you ever clean these cabs?" He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his hands. He noticed a folded newspaper under the front passenger seat. As he pulled it out, he heard a thunk against the floorboard. With his handkerchief wrapped around his hand, he reached under the seat and removed a small unlabeled movie film canister. "Bingo!"

"Yeah, bingo. What is it?" Joe asked.

"What Reeves sent his muscle to find." Gunn covered the canister in his handkerchief and got out of the cab. He grabbed Joe. "You're coming with me."

"Where to?"

"Jacoby. This is probably what got Katherine Bedrosian killed.

As much as Lou Jacoby hated being awakened in the middle of the night, Joan, his wife, hated it more. She rolled away from him covering her head with her pillow. He hated it even more when it was Peter Gunn on the other end of the phone line, but he knew Pete wouldn't calling after midnight without a very good reason. The only words he needed to hear were film canister and Bryce Hunter. He whipped the covers from his side of the bed.

Jacoby arrived with his collar open at the neck and his tie looped over his shoulder. Pete and Mannix were waiting in his office. The Mannix kid looked beat up, and Pete looked smug. A movie projector rested on his desk.

"Have you seen it yet?" Jacoby asked.

"No, we were hoping you'd bring the popcorn."

"Smart ass," Jacoby mumbled, then flipped the light switch. Pete pushed the projector on button as Jacoby tumbled into a chair.

The film flickered against the office wall. The images were raw. No editing, whatever happened in front of the camera was there. Faces and naked bodies wandered in and out of the frame. Matters, private between a man and a woman or a man and a man, flashed against the institutional beige wall. Bryce Hunter's face faded in and out of the frame. Jacoby took notes on the other faces he recognized; the names of politicians, movie stars, businessmen and socialites peppered his list. When the film ended eleven minutes later, the three men let out a collective sigh.

"If that's only eleven minutes of it, makes you wonder where the rest of this stuff is, doesn't it?" Jacoby turned off the projector and turned on the overhead light. "He was squeezing them babes for years."

"This is what Kathy died for? This is what I got beat up for?" Joe drooped in his chair.

Jacoby could guess what the Mannix guy was thinking. Was this worth getting killed over?

"Okay, where'd you get this?" Jacoby asked.

Gunn nudged Joe.

"Some guy left it in my cab," Joe muttered.

"You know him?"

"He was a fare I picked up at the Hollywood Bowl."

"And what were you doing there?"

Joe clamped his mouth shut, but Gunn filled in. "The girl gave him an envelope to keep. Had a ticket to the Dizzy Gillespie concert in it. He decided to play detective and see what he could find out."

Jacoby rolled his eyes. "You could be charged with 'withholding evidence'!"

"I know." Joe squirmed. "What do you want me to do? Say I'm sorry? If I knew that film was there I would've turned it over to you. I just wanted to understand why someone would kill her."

"Now he's a target. Macklin Reeves is involved somehow. He sent his goons to beat on him," Gunn said.

"Oh, really. So that's why you look like hell. Would you recognize that guy who left this in your cab if you saw him again?" Jacoby asked.

"Maybe, didn't get a real good look at him."

"Describe him," Jacoby said.

"White guy, maybe five ten, one sixty, maybe 30-35 years old, wore a cap, doesn't smoke, seemed nervous. I didn't get a good look at him."

"Where'd you take him?"

"The Comanche."

Jacoby marched to his door and called to Davis, the desk sergeant, while pointing at Joe. "Get him a cup of coffee and the mug books." Jacoby waved Joe out of his office. "And don't hold out me again or you'll be looking at life from behind bars." Jacoby slammed the door. "Amateurs! Why does everybody think they can be a private detective?"

Gunn smiled. "I make it appear too easy."

"Yeah, but you were a cop once." He settled into his chair. "What are we going to do about this?"

"About Macklin Reeves or about the film?"

"Both."

"Mannix is on his radar now. Never a good sign."

Jacoby drummed his fingers his desk. "Makes me wonder how Reeves got on to Mannix. The only reason we knew about him is because his name and phone number were in her reporter's notebook."

"Yeah, how did he get his hands on that information?"

"But what's the connection with the Bryce Hunter homicide?" Jacoby thought a moment. "Yeah, that was Joe Friday's case. He was never happy with the way it turned out. Didn't believe that Morgan woman killed him. Thinks she was taking the fall for someone else."

"Unofficially I found another of Bedrosian's notebooks. Blaney coming by later after he translates it for us. This could be the big story Bedrosian was working on. We know she'd been trying to track down leads on the Bryce Hunter films."

"This connects her to Reeves, how?"

"Don't know. You gonna go see him?"

"I'm thinking about bringing him here. Shake him up a bit. See what falls out."

"He's got a lot of friends in the right places," Gunn said.

"I wouldn't call them friends. More like victims."

Art found Joe seated at a vacant detective's desk surrounded by a pile of mug books, a paper cup of coffee, and an ashtray full of cigarettes. His morning stubble peeked out from around the bandages on his face. Joe was going to have hell shaving.

"Hey, Joe."

Joe stubbed out a half-smoked cigarette. "Morning, Art." He stifled a yawn.

"How about getting breakfast?"

"It's Wednesday. Aren't you working today?"

"Not till later. C'mon. Bad night?"

"Yeah, sorta. Clifton's?" Joe suggested.

Art examined his friend's face closer. "Next time you might want to make sure your face misses his fist."

"Yeah, next time." Joe led the way out of the station to go north on Figueroa. It wasn't worth driving to Clifton's. As usual the downtown morning traffic was already snarled. The traffic cops did their best but it was a losing battle. Art and Joe picked their path amid the stalled cars and honking horns.

Art broke their silence. "Want to tell me what happened in Costa Verde?"

"What do you mean 'what happened'? Nothing happened. My contract was for six months. I did six months. I came home."

"Joe, this is Art you're talking to, remember? Korea? POW camp?"

"When did you become Sigmund Freud?"

"Look, I'm trying to help. Since you came back, you're . . . different. Like . . . I don't know. Different." Art lowered his voice. "Was it worse than Camp Five, Changju?"

"Maybe . . . not now," Joe said, his voice just above a whisper.

Art knew he could only press Joe a little at a time. He was probably the stubbornest guy Art knew, but that's what got them both through Changju. Neither spoke until they made the right to Sixth.

"What do you know about Macklin Reeves?" Joe asked.

"Why the sudden interest in him?"

"No reason. Curiosity."

Art sensed it was more than that. "Everybody knows he's into gambling outside the city limits. Probably in cahoots with the Fortune crime family, but no one can prove anything. He claims he's a legitimate businessman. Mostly deals in commercial real estate, some residential. A lot of people figure that's how he funnels his money from the gambling joints. Buys up property and holds on to it until he can make a profit. Snappy dresser, also owns a men's clothing store, Cameron's, on Sunset. Probably throws some of his gambling profits in there too."

"Does he hire muscle?"

"Why would you ask that? You're not thinking of going to work for him?"

"No, I've got a debt to repay."

"The interest is pretty high in his neighborhood. Is this something I shouldn't know about?"

"Just curious."

"Joe, what's up?"

"Nothing."

"Sometimes you make it hard on your friends."

"You can stop being my friend anytime you want." Joe halted a few steps from the front door of Clifton's.

Art grabbed his arm; Joe shook him off. "I didn't mean it that way. Come on, Joe, I'm a cop; I can only look the other way so many times. I don't mind sticking my neck out for you. I just want to know how close I am to getting it cut off."

"Did that sergeant send you?"

Art hesitated. "Yeah, he did. He wants to make sure you don't wind up in a gutter somewhere."

"I can take care of myself."

"No, you can't. This isn't Korea or Costa Verde. This is Los Angeles. There's guys out there who'll blow your head off for looking at them the wrong way."

Joe flinched. "Leave it alone, Art."

"Why can't you let anybody help you? Don't you trust me?"

"It's not you I don't trust." Joe disappeared around the corner. Art watched him go. He had pushed enough for one day.

"Damn!" Macklin Reeves pounded his desk. He was so close to finding the Hunter sex films, he could see it flickering before his eyes. Bernie jumped; Cully continued holding up his favorite wall.

"Now Peter Gunn's in on it. I told you to follow Mannix, not beat him up."

Reeves had managed to get to the concert in time to get the box seat next to Joe Mannix. He wanted to gauge the guy for himself. He'd decided Mannix was a lightweight. Nothing to worry about. Just keep following him, and he was bound to lead them to the film. That was the time to take care of business. Cully messed it up by thinking. What he should have done was drop Bernie off at the Comanche Bar and then follow that Mannix guy around. Cully normally did what he was told but since Bernie starting working with him, Cully was showing signs of trying to use what little brains he thought he had.

"Next time I say follow somebody, follow him. Don't talk to him, don't beat him up, and most of all stay away from Peter Gunn. What idiots I have working for me."

Joe parked the cab about a block away from Cameron's Fine Clothing. He waited for it to open at eleven. He struggled to remember what Reeves looked like. A gray homburg was all he remembered. Reeves looked to Joe like any of the dozen or so fares he picked up on any given night. He had long since learned not to pay too much attention to the people who got in his cab.

The outside of the place matched the surrounding shops. The windows framed tastefully draped mannequins in silk suits and hand-woven ties. Not the kind of place he'd buy his clothes. More like a place for Gunn.

He wanted a glimpse of Reeves. One of the first things he was taught in fighter pilot school was know your enemy. Cully and Bernie were pretty much burned into his memory.

Joe crossed the street, opened the door and heard the chime. He spied Cully lounging behind the counter in the rear of the store. Racks of suits lined the walls. In between were display tables laid out with shirts and accessories. When he looked back at the rear counter, Cully had disappeared.

Joe could feel the salesman's measuring him for how much money he could get out of Joe. Joe surmised that with his morning stubble, bandages and bruises, he was pretty low on this salesman's priorities.

"May I help you, sir?"

"Looking for a tie."

"Just one?"

"I can only wear one at a time."

"This way." The salesman led Joe to a wall of ties. Everything from paisleys to modern art patterned silk ties hung on racks. Joe paid little attention to the salesman's patter. He felt the ties and tried to look casual as he scanned the store.

"That'll be all, Sam."

"Yes, Mr. Reeves." The salesman's exit was swift. Joe ignored Reeves for another second and then faced him. He wanted to memorize his face. He didn't want to mistake him for anyone else.

"You have a lot of nerve showing up here."

"I'm looking for a tie." Joe grabbed a red Paisley tie off the rack. "What do you think?" He held it up to his collar.

Reeves reached for another tie, yellow with large white dots. He neatly pulled up Joe's collar, placed the tie around his neck and began to knot it.

Joe studied Reeves' face. He wanted remember every pore, every hair. When Reeves finished, Cully and Bernie appeared on each side of Joe. Reeves dusted imaginary dirt from the shoulders of Joe's jacket.

"Where's Gunn?"

"He doesn't babysit me."

"Could have fooled me. Let's make a deal. The Bryce Hunter films for your life," Reeves said.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I assumed that's why you're here, to deal. If you don't have them, I'm betting you know where to find them or who has them."

"Can't help you. Just looking for a tie. How much?" Joe asked.

"This one's on the house," Reeves said. He nodded to Cully and Bernie. They grabbed Joe's arms.

"Next time," Reeves said as he snugged the knot against Joe's throat. "Bring the film with you or this will make a stylish noose."

For the second time in three days, Joe Mannix was at the morgue in the basement of the Hall of Justice. The viewing room reminded him of his mother's lavender sachets, but the longer he stood there the more the scent of death enveloped him.

Art had explained to him how they prepare the body to be autopsied. Her organs are removed, tissue samples are taken, and any bruises or scars are noted. Joe wondered if Art had ever seen any of his friends laying on that table.

Jacoby tapped on the window and a white curtain peeled back revealing a body covered by a white sheet on a gurney. Joe shut is eyes intent on remembering the Kathy who was alive in his memory.

"That's my Kathy," he heard her father, Ara Bedrosian, say in a choked voice. Joe waited for the rattling of the curtain closing stopped before he opened his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bedrosian." Jacoby fussed with his fedora. "The autopsy is done. You can take her home."

Through his hand on Bedrosian's shoulder, Joe felt the shudders and the tears. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know how to comfort him.

"I'll stay with him," Joe heard himself say. Jacoby nodded and departed.

"Why, Joe?" Bedrosian asked as he dried his tears on his coat sleeve.

"I don't know," he whispered.

"But they have so many murders here, not like Summer Grove. How can they find her killer?"

"Sgt. Jacoby's handling it. He's a good detective." Joe didn't mention to Bedrosian about the Hunter sex films. He hoped no one else would neither. He didn't want that to be anyone's last memory of her.

"But what if he can't find her killer? What happens then? The killer go free?"

"Don't worry, Mr. Bedrosian," Joe said. "I'll make sure they find her killer."

Joe escorted the grieving father to the loading dock. They arrived as Kathy's coffin was being loaded into the hearse.

Joe didn't normally start his afternoon drinking a beer at the Buck, but these were unusual times for him. In the last two days he had been told a friend of his was dead, been to the morgue twice, interviewed by the police, and beat up by thugs. So much for flying below the radar. He was so far in over his head he felt he was flying at night on instruments only.

A plate of fish and chips scooted toward him.

"From last night," Ruby said. "You were interrupted."

"Thanks. So you were a nurse once?"

"I was a lot of things once." She poked at his ribs before she toodled back to the kitchen.

Neil was polishing the bar. He took great pride in blinding anyone who chose to sit there.

"What's with her?" Joe asked.

"We all have our secrets, mate." Neil laid the cleaning polish on thick and tried to rub grain off the wood.

Joe attacked the food. He tried to remember the last time he almost ate. He reviewed his talk with Art. He knew Art was only trying to help, but he didn't know when to quit. Joe didn't know if he would every tell anyone about Costa Verde.

The Duchess placed a bottle of Guinness on the bar and climbed on the stool next to Joe.

"Here, I just polished that bit!"

"Are you forgetting who owns this place?"

"Not at all, Duchess. Just trying to keep it shipshape for you." Neil slid a coaster under her bottle.

"Go keep the tables shipshape."

"Yes, ma'am." Neil did a mock salute and retreated to the tables.

"How are you feeling this afternoon Joseph?"

"A little sore." He touched the stubble on his face. He'd caught a couple of hours sleep, but he hadn't attempted to shave around the bandages and the bruises yet. "I guess I'm not as good with my fists as I thought."

"You were outnumbered."

"Until Gunn came along and evened the odds."

The Duchess rolled her bottle of beer in her hands. "You have no idea of who you're dealing with."

"I can take care of myself."

"Of course you can."

"Like you said, I was outnumbered." Joe explained to the Duchess what happened after he and Gunn had left. "So I shouldn't be on Reeves' radar anymore. I have nothing he wants." Joe sipped his beer.

"He doesn't know that. Do you think he had anything to do with your friend's murder?"

Gunn had evidently told the Duchess a little bit about what was going on. In fact, Joe was puzzled why the guy left the film in the cab in the first place. Why not take it with him? Maybe that was the point. Joe was that guy's unknowing patsy.

Joe stabbed at his potatoes. "What do you know about Reeves?"

"Basically the same things everybody else think they know about him and enough to stay away."

"Is that what you're advising?"

"Yes, but you won't listen." The Duchess finished her beer. "So what's next, Sherlock?

Joe saw Gunn leaning on the front fender of his Thunderbird as he parked the cab in the alley next to YMCA. Gunn looked a little tired, but somehow he had managed to find time for a shower, a shave and fresh suit.

"What are you doing here?" Joe asked.

"Get in."

"Why?"

"Because I said so. I got a call from your friend, Mac. Some guy's hanging around the garage. May be that guy, the one who left the film."

"Why didn't you say so?"

Gunn turned the ignition key and the Thunderbird growled to life. Joe jumped into the passenger seat.

"Looking for something?" Gunn asked. The man in the newsboy cap jerked his head around to stare in the direction of the question.

"Remember me?" Joe asked. He threw his cigarette to the ground and smashed it. It was late enough in the evening that all the other drivers had been dispatched. All you could hear was Mac cursing in the grease pit as he smashed his knuckles against another junkyard reject.

"Yeah, I remember you. I left something in your cab. What about it?" He addressed Joe and pointed at Gunn. "Who's the fashion plate?"

Gunn pulled a small film canister from his inside coat pocket. "Is this what you're searching for?"

The man tried to snatch it from Gunn's hand; Joe caught his wrist.

"Hey, that's mine. I left it in there last night."

"Who are you? And how did you get ahold of this?" Gunn asked.

"What's it to you?"

Joe twisted the man's arm and slammed his face onto the trunk of the cab. The thud rang off the walls of the garage.

"Let's start again. Who are you?" Gunn asked calmly.

Joe bent his arm a little more. "Answer the man's question."

"Lenny McAvoy."

"Where'd you get the film?"

"You know what you got there? You got the key to the city," Lenny panted.

"Really." Gunn twirled the can in his hand. "That's not what I asked you."

Joe pushed Lenny's face deeper into the metal of the trunk.

"An auction, a state auction of unclaimed property." Lenny squeezed out the answer from between his elongated lips.

Gunn waved the canister. "And what were planning to do with this key?"

"Figured I'd sell it for a few bucks and get out of town."

"Let him up."

Joe released Lenny's face from the trunk and pulled him to a standing position, keeping a grip on his arms.

"Have you seen what's on the film?"

Lenny eyed Joe who towered over him. "Yeah, I seen some of it. You don't have to see the whole reel to figure out what's going on."

"Any more of these?" Gunn asked.

"Yeah, a few."

"Where?"

"You buying?"

"You're lucky to be alive," Joe said.

Lenny snickered while looking at the bruises and bandages on Joe's face. "You can talk."

"No, I'm not buying. I'm going to assist you into being a good citizen by turning them over to the police," Gunn said.

"How do I know you won't double cross me and then sell them yourself?"

"Because he won't," Joe said.

"Yeah, well, you ain't cops and you can't make me."

"You're right. We're not cops." Gunn nodded to Joe. "Make him." Joe flipped Lenny around to face him and grabbed his lapels pulling Lenny up on his toes.

"Okay, okay, okay."

Joe released him.

Lenny tried to smooth the wrinkles out of his lapels. "Jeez, you guys play rough."

"Not as rough as Macklin Reeves."

"So that's what happened to you," Lenny said as he eyed Joe.

Gunn led the way out of the garage to his Thunderbird. Joe followed dragging Lenny by his arm. Gunn opened the passenger door and Joe shoved Lenny in. "Hey, we work pretty well together."

"Don't get any ideas," Gunn said. He strolled to the driver's side and got in. "I work alone." He tossed the film canister to Lenny. Lenny jiggled it and heard no sound. He opened and found it empty.

"Hey, what gives? Where's my film?"

"Where to?" Gunn asked Lenny.

"Up on Mulholland," Lenny muttered and tossed the empty can. He was squashed between Gunn and Joe.

"Mulholland's twenty miles long."

"I'll tell you where. Take Laurel Canyon Road and go west."

The Thunderbird's headlights traced a trail through the evening darkness. At this time of the night the traffic on Laurel Canyon was starting to taper off.

"Do you see what I see?" Joe asked Gunn. He swiveled the passenger side mirror to get a better look.

"I noticed that about ten minutes ago."

"What? What do you see?" Lenny twisted around.

"Don't look!" Gunn barked. He took the exit to Mulholland West, the headlights following them. Gunn sped up when he could; the coiling road made him curb his speed. The lights behind them faded in the curves of Mulholland.

"It should be just past this sign." Lenny pointed at a 25 MPH sign. Headlights revealed a horseshoe-shaped dirt patch with a white wooden fence on both sides. A metal guard rail defended the center of the overlook from a steep drop. Openings between the fence and the guard rail led to trails that meandered through the brush at a lower level. Gunn parked with the passenger side of the car nearest the right side railing.

The men heard the rumble of a car engine laboring up the hill behind them. They ducked as a car passed the overlook and its headlights swept over them.

"Hurry up." Gunn opened the trunk, reached in for a flashlight and an army shovel. He flipped the blade up and locked it in place. "Where to?" he asked Lenny.

"Looks different in the dark."

"It'll look a lot different if you're dead. Get a move on." Joe dragged Lenny from the guard rail to the opening between it and the fence that led down to the trail. Gunn pulled Joe aside.

"You stay here and watch out for that car. Get my spare pistol from the glove compartment." He prodded Lenny down the trail.

"Wait," Joe said. "Why do . . ." Joe's voice trailed off. Why did he need a weapon? Gunn had a pistol. That should be enough.

Joe positioned himself on the lower level of the trail looking up at the parking area. Lenny complained.

"You guys aren't really going to give the film to the cops are? Tell you what; I'll split the money with you. Fifty-fifty. This way we all get a a piece . . ."

"Will you shut up and keep going?" Gunn growled. Joe squinted at the flashlight bobbing in the darkness. Their voices faded. He returned to watching Mulholland.

Soon he heard the sounds of metal flinging dirt. He hid when he heard a car engine; its headlights raked the overlook, but didn't stop. The flashlight beam advanced slowly toward him on the dirt trail. Then a car, coming from the east without its lights on, swung into the overlook, a dark color with an aerial on the back right fender.

"You sure you don't want to deal? I've been waiting for something like this all my life," Lenny whined, his voice carrying in the night air.

"Quiet!" Joe hissed. Gunn and Lenny slipped next to Joe.

From the hiding place on the lower trail, the T-bird blocked Joe's view of everything but the feet of the driver of the other car. The feet stepped out soles crunching on the gravel. A beam of light danced in the darkness of the overlook. The feet paused. A car door opened. A jangle.

The feet retreated. "I got your keys. Let's make a trade. Keys for film."

Lenny clamped his arms around the burlap bag. "You can't give it to him," he pleaded.

The man jangled the keys again. "C'mon, I haven't got all night."

"Did you get the pistol?" Gunn whispered. "You distract him while I do a rear guard action." Before Joe could answer, Gunn melted into the darkness of the lower trail.

Joe cursed. Why didn't he get the pistol when Gunn told him to? How was he going to distract this guy? How was he going to get that pistol now?

Slowly Joe climbed under the fence on his stomach and inched his way to the T-bird. He halted every few inches. He heard a crunch and stopped. He looked back at the lower trail searching for Lenny. Gone. What the hell? Where'd he go? Joe stretched his arm to open the car door.

"Where's Gunn?" the man asked. Joe froze. He looked up. The man pointed a gun at him. His dark suit. His fedora. Joe couldn't see his face. Who was he?

"I ─" All Joe saw was the barrel of a 38. caliber police special. Looked like the mouth of a cannon.

"Where's Gunn!" The man drew the hammer back.

Joe trembled, his skin clammy. He saw the cylinder cycle. All the chambers had bullets in them. He wanted to run, nowhere to go. He might as well be tied to a chair. Like Costa Verde. Not again . . . no, not again. It's not happening again.

A bullet shrieked. The man spun and fired. Joe pulled open the door, dived for the glove compartment, fumbled it open, and grabbed the pistol inside. Another shot, muffled this time, further away. Where was that guy? Joe's breath came in short bursts. Where was Gunn? A car door slammed and an engine started. He had to do this.

He popped up from behind the T-bird as the other car sped away. He eased the pistol to his side. Damn Costa Verde!

A groan! Joe scoured the darkness.

"Gunn, where are you?" Joe turned on the headlights. The beams reached into the darkness.

Joe locked on to the sound of Gunn's moans. He climbed over the left side of the overlook fence and found Gunn lying in the bushes on his back. Enough light spilled from the car beams that Joe saw the blood soaking on the right shoulder of Gunn's suit.

"Where were you?" Gunn asked. He struggled to get upright. "Get me out of here!"

The End of Part 2


	3. Part 3

_Part Three:_

_Wednesday, October 10, 1956/8 PM – Monday, October 15, 1956/8 PM_

Art Malcolm rushed up the two flights of stairs to the Central Receiving Hospital in the Georgia Street Station like he was charging a hill in Korea. Bob Naylor, his probationer, stayed with the patrol car in case they got a call. He hurried toward the emergency room worried about the incident he had heard over the police radio.

"Joe!" He reached out to grab his friend's arm. Art was relieved to see that Joe hadn't been the one reported as wounded and rushed to the hospital.

Art pulled Joe down to the couch. "What happened? Who got shot?"

"Gunn."

It was then Art noticed Joe's hands were shaking.

"What happened?"

"He froze." The look on Jacoby's face was even more dour than usual.

"What?" Art's heart froze. "What do mean?" He shook his head. "Not Joe." Those were words that Art would have never applied to Joe Mannix. Sure, in combat, you were afraid, but you still did your duty. You fought back. You took it like a man. Who wasn't afraid?

"Pete just told me," Jacoby said.

"Is he gonna be all right?" Joe asked.

"Yeah, the doc's digging the bullet out of his shoulder right now. No thanks to you."

"What happened?" Art blurted.

"Pete talked a guy named Lenny McAvoy . . ."

"Wait a minute, who's Lenny McAvoy?" Art asked.

"Apparently he came into possession of the Hunter sex films."

"Where is he? What was he doing while this was going on? Joe?"

"He disappeared," Joe said.

"Disappeared? Where could he go from up there?"

"No telling. I'll get R&I on him later." Jacoby continued. "Somebody followed them. After Pete and Lenny were returning, somebody jumped them. Pete decided to see if he could sneak up behind the guy. Only Joe didn't cover him, did you?" Jacoby's eyes burned through Joe. Joe hung his head.

"You let him get shot, didn't you?" Jacoby's voice rose in volume.

"Now, wait a minute, Jacoby – " Art turned to his friend, "Joe, is that what happened?"

Joe nodded. "I. . ."

Art moved away from his friend. He remembered a different Joe Mannix. The cocky smile, the fearlessness and the courage he had shown in Korea. Art stared. What happened to him in Costa Verde? His mind was trapped between the man he knew and the man he saw.

"Art, I . . ."

"I don't know you anymore." Malcolm stalked down the hallway and disappeared down the stairs.

Joe didn't know how long he sat there before Jacoby tapped him on the shoulder and said, "Come with me." He thought he going downstairs to the sergeant's office to make a statement about the shootout. Instead Jacoby took him out of the station side entrance and into an unmarked police car.

"Sorry about back there. I get a little excited sometimes when a friend of mine gets hurt," Jacoby said.

Joe stared at the passing streets trying to get the fear out of his body, that feeling of helplessness, the shakes. Damn Costa Verde. He never should have gone. He never should have fallen in love either.

Joe didn't know where Jacoby was going until he drove through the gates of the Los Angeles Police Academy. Jacoby wound through the narrow streets to a small area on the far side of the police campus. He motioned to Joe to join him. The sign at the foot of the walk said 'Pistol Range.' Joe slowed. Why was Jacoby bringing him here?

Jacoby gestured for him to come in. Joe stepped just inside the entrance, the faint smell of cordite filling his nostrils.

Jacoby turned on the range lights. "C'mon," Jacoby said over his shoulder. "I don't bite." At the first firing position he pulled his Colt Detective Special from his holster, placed the ammunition and the weapon on the stand with its barrel pointing downrange. Joe stiffened, his muscles locking him into position.

"Back when Pete and I were walking a beat together, we stumbled upon a burglary in progress, a 460. Heard the alarm ringing its ass off down the street. Pete always went in the front, and I covered the back." Jacoby leaned against the lane partition. He tipped his fedora back on his head. "I barely got to the back of the building before the back door burst open and this kid ran out with a bag in one hand and a gun in the other." Jacoby stared at the target in his firing lane like a ghost was returning to haunt him.

"You know why cops get drilled so much on shooting their weapon? So we won't freeze when someone points a gun at us. That second changes your life forever." Jacoby picked his gun, spun the cylinder and put it down again.

"Everything became slow motion when I saw that gun. I was scared out of my mind. Didn't yell 'Police.' Didn't fire a warning shot. I just pulled the trigger. I saw his face as he went down. I think he was more surprised than I was. I couldn't move after that. Pete ran out, saw him lying there. The kid was already dead, but he called for an ambulance anyway. By the time he came back, I'd finished throwing up." He grabbed the gun and spun the cylinder again.

Joe's eyes darted to the gun in Jacoby's hand. Why is he doing that?

"When you are returned to duty after a shooting incident you have to requalify with a pistol. My hands were shaking so bad I'd done better throwing my weapon at the target. Took me three tries before I barely qualified. Found out later that a couple other guys of my shift were taking bets that I'd quit the force. That I was too scared to walk a beat again. You know, they were right. I was scared. Not for me, for Pete." Jacoby turned to the firing land emptied six bullets into the target. Joe cringed at every shot.

Jacoby released the cylinder, checked that the weapon was clear and placed it on the stand.

"I worried if I would be able to pull the trigger again if I had to. And I was an MP during the war."

When Joe heard somebody say 'the war,' he knew that person wasn't talking about Korea. Nobody talked about Korea, his war.

"I spent my entire time at Camp Clinton, Mississippi guarding German POWs. Never shot at anything other than a target. Then I get a job as a cop and within a year, I've killed a person. Anyway I asked for a different partner, but Pete wouldn't change. Said he'd take me over anybody else any day."

"I'm not a coward," Joe finally blurted.

"Pete knows something musta happened to make you freeze up like that."

"I –" Joe started.

"It ain't me you gotta tell. I don't care what happened in Costa Verde."

"What did Art tell you?" Joe's fists wrenched opened and closed. "He had no –"

"He couldn't tell me much because you haven't told him anything." Jacoby leaned on the stand. "You know, you got a real good friend there."

"Not any more."

"He'll be back. He's just gotta sort it out in his head." Jacoby reloaded his gun and laid it on the stand. "You can't change what happens to you in life. You can only change how you react to it." Jacoby strolled away from the firing position.

"How did you do it . . . come back?" Joe asked.

Jacoby eyed the loaded pistol then glanced pointedly downrange as he continued his stroll past Joe. "I need a smoke."

Joe was rooted to the spot. His heart was racing so fast he couldn't count the beats. Slowly he stepped to the firing position. He gripped the gun feeling the cold steel in his hands. He sighted the target. He slammed his eyes shut and snatched a breath. The muzzle jerked up as he fired wildly. He continued to squeeze the trigger long after the chambers was empty.

Click . . . click . . .click. He remembered the feel of the cold muzzle of a revolver against his temple. Click, click, click.

Slowly he lowered the revolver and glared at the target. No bullet holes except for the tight grouping of six Jacoby had made.

"You can only change how you react to it," echoed in his head. You can only change how you react to it.

Joe spun the empty cylinder again and again feeling the motion down to his toes. Finally, he stopped it, released the latch and began shoving bullets in.

Joe knelt to pick up the rest of the empty shell casings. His target looked like Swiss cheese. Single bullet holes everywhere except for a few tight groupings.

"Yeah, you were in the military." Jacoby appeared at the firing position. "Guys who never went in have to be told to police the range." He checked his revolver. "You owe me a cleaning." He pushed it into his holster. "Let's go."

Back at the station it was almost midnight as they rode the elevator to the second floor hospital. Jacoby asked the nurse on duty what room Gunn was in.

"Wait here," Jacoby told Joe. He found a seat in the waiting room where he could keep an eye on the door to Gunn's hospital room.

The door opened. Joe stood when he realized a woman was exiting. So this was Edie Hart, the woman who wrested Gunn away from the Duchess. Joe couldn't blame him. The Duchess was a good looking woman but Edie had something else. She took his breath away.

She tilted her head and stared at him. "You're Joe Mannix?"

"Yes, ma'am." Joe wanted to hang his head, but her gaze riveted his eyes to hers.

"Pete's going to be alright."

Something about those eyes reminded him of Lupe. The eyes that looked into his soul.

"Look, I'm sorry. I don't . . ."

"Sorry doesn't cut it!" Her eyes flamed. "He could have been killed."

Joe remained silent. His moment of hesitation could have cost Gunn his life. He didn't offer any explanation because he didn't know how to explain his fear. A damp concrete bunker. Arms tied to a chair. The revolving cylinder The click of the hammer.

Jacoby joined them. "After Pete's done talking to you, wait in my office. I need a statement from you." He led Edie toward the elevator and vanished.

Joe rapped on the door and heard a "Get in here!" Gunn was propped up with pillows. Joe stared at the floor.

"I heard that you were a pilot and a POW in Korea."

"Yeah," Joe answered.

"That was a rough one. I'm glad I got out of that war."

"Couldn't have been any worse than World War II."

"Different war, different times. It was a little clearer what we were fighting for."

Joe nodded. Only men who had survived combat understood what it did to you. Even in a war that wasn't your war, a war you got paid to fight.

"You can do me a favor."

"Anything," Joe said.

"Help me get the bastard who shot me."

For the first time Joe focused on Gunn. "We're going after Reeves?"

"Hey, cool your jets, flyboy. Whoever it was who shot me wasn't Cully or Bernie. They're muscle not brains. Reeves is mixed up in this, but someone else is pulling some strings."

"Any ideas?" Joe asked.

"Not yet. You're gonna be my legs. You'll need something to drive besides a cab. You still got my extra car keys?"

"Yes. Who do you think did it?"

"I can't be sure yet, but it's pointing that way. Also you'll need to find Lenny too."

Joe juggled the keys in his hands. "What about Jacoby? Isn't he already doing that?"

"He does things his way; I do things my way. By the way, do you own a suit?"

"Not a suit." Joe shrugged. "A couple of sport jackets and slacks."

"Is there a tie in there somewhere?"

"Yeah, I got a ties." He'd thrown the one Reeves had given him in the trash.

"If you're working with me, you need to dress better."

Joe glimpsed down – his loafers, dark brown corduroys, tan button down shirt and a leather jacket. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"

"You look like a combination of frat boy, cab driver and slob. Lose the corduroys. Makes too much noise when you move."

"Anything else?"

"You might need a little grease. Look in that drawer."

Joe opened the drawer by the bedside and picked up the only item in there – Gunn's wallet.

"Take the cash."

Joe counted almost five hundred dollars; he whistled.

"Now these are the people I want you to talk to," Gunn said.

The Bedrosian homicide hadn't been assigned a Deputy DA yet. Leigh called in a favor to get the job. He didn't like doing that. Enough of the other Deputy DAs had already accused him of grandstanding, only wanting the important cases. He called Sgt. Jacoby to schedule a briefing that Thursday morning.

Jacoby was pacing the conference room, when Leigh entered.

"Isn't it a little early to get the DA's office involved?" Jacoby asked.

"Have a seat, Sergeant." Jacoby remained standing. "Normally," Leigh continued, "I would agree, but because of who she was and who she worked for, I thought it best to stay in close contact with you. I might be able to expedite any warrants or any other paperwork you might need. Please sit down." Leigh pointed to a chair next to him. He pulled a cigarette from his pack; he offered it to Jacoby.

"Don't smoke," Jacoby said.

Leigh puffed. "Where do we stand in the investigation? Any suspects?"

Jacoby relented and sat down. "Not officially."

"Unofficially?"

"I'm interviewing Macklin Reeves tomorrow."

"Reeves? How is he involved?"

"I don't know yet. I don't have a motive or an opportunity."

"You have means?"

"Bernie Moss, an enforcer for Reeves, had a wino buy the bottle of chloroform."

"Why not interview Moss? Why Reeves?"

"Bernie doesn't do anything without orders from Reeves. I want Reeves to know that he has stupid people working for him."

"I didn't know chloroform was lethal." Leigh touched the knot on his tie. He reminded himself to stop doing that. He crushed his cigarette out. He had to stop doing that too.

"It stops the heart when a person is given too much. It's amazing that there aren't more deaths from it. It's not like the people using it have a medical degree."

"And that's from the autopsy?" Leigh asked.

"Cardiac arrhythmia." Jacoby nodded. "Bruising on her arms and face."

"Have you traced her whereabouts for that night?"

"I know she started out at the Hall of Justice and wound up at the Sheila with a detour to the Mayfield. By the way, weren't you working that night? I saw your name on the deputies sign-in book."

"Yes, I came in to work on the Burger case." Leigh dropped his eyes to the files on the conference table. "Is that your preliminary report?"

"Yes. While I'm here I thought I question the other people whose names were on the sign-in log." Jacoby opened the file and removed the photos arranging them on the table. Leigh studied the crime scene photos with only a brief glance at the autopsy photos.

"Nothing to indicate who may have been in the room with her or why?" Leigh asked.

"No fingerprints, only smudges. No credible witnesses."

"Looks like you have a way to go on this investigation. Anything else unofficial?"

"I'm reviewing the Bryce Hunter case to see if and how they may be connected."

"Bryce Hunter? That was one of my first cases as prosecutor."

"There was a notebook belonging to the deceased that had a page torn out of it." Jacoby singled out a photo from the stack. "The previous page was missing, torn out. I rubbed a pencil lead over it and uncovered that name and phone number. Turns out that this guy is a friend of the deceased. Also he's the cab driver who dropped her off the Mayfield after he picked her up from the Hall of Justice."

"You know how she got from here to the Mayfield, but not the Sheila?"

"Right, but what makes this interesting is that a day later Mannix, the cab driver, gets beat up by Cully Roberts and Bernie Moss."

"It all keeps coming back to Macklin Reeves."

"Oh, and that cab driver with assistance from Peter Gunn found one of the Bryce Hunter missing films left in his cab by a guy named Lenny McAvoy."

"So you have one of the missing films. How did this McAvoy fellow get ahold that? Who is he?"

"Don't know. I haven't got back a report on him from R&I."

"I'll be interested to know how your interview with Reeves goes. Thank you, Sergeant for the briefing. " Leigh stood.

"I'll send over copies of my reports."

"Excellent. Thank you again." After Leigh ushered Jacoby out the door, he lit another cigarette. They both had work to do.

Leigh heard the phone ring once and then Bernie's voice trying to sound tough.

"Yeah?"

"Let me speak to him."

Reeves insisted that they never use their personal names on the phone. He assumed his phones were bugged.

"You know better than to call here," Reeves said.

"Listen, there's a guy named Mannix who's trying to frame you for the Bedrosian murder."

"Mannix? Yeah, I met him. He's a lightweight."

"He's a friend of that Bedrosian woman. He's convinced you killed her."

Reeves snorted. "If the cops aren't knocking down my door, I'm not worried about some 'friend' of the deceased."

"Watch your back."

Reeves hung up.

One shoe dropped, Leigh thought. Time to drop the other one. His next call was to Delaney.

Late Friday morning Reeves arrived at the Georgia Street Station accompanied by Cully and Bernie. Cully strutted to the desk sergeant. "Sgt. Jacoby?"

The desk sergeant didn't say anything. He picked up the phone and dialed two numbers. He said, "He's here," and listened and nodded. "Okay," and he hung up the phone. "That way." he pointed. "Room 4, on the left."

Cully started walking ahead of Reeves, Bernie a step behind.

"Just him," the sergeant said. "You two stay here." He pointed at a bench across from his desk.

Reeves nodded his consent to his men and strolled down the hall to Room 4. He agreed to be interviewed by Sergeant Jacoby, because for once in his life he knew he didn't do it.

The door opened into a room slightly larger than a bathroom with a scratched up table and two tired chairs. One wall held a large mirror. Reeves slipped off his gloves. He didn't sit. He fixed his eyes on the mirror and said, "Anytime, Sergeant."

A few moments later the door opened and Jacoby squeezed in carrying a small box. To Reeves Jacoby looked like the typical civil servant in an ill-fitting suit.

"Sit down." Jacoby pointed at the seat furthest from the door. He took the other one.

Reeves surveyed the chair before depositing himself in it. "Sergeant Jacoby, what can I do for you?"

Jacoby pulled a white silk handkerchief from the box and placed it on the table in front of Reeves.

Reeves arched his eyebrows in question.

"Look at it," Jacoby commanded.

Reeves picked it up. "So?"

"I was hoping you could help me. Your label's on it. Maybe you could identify the owner?"

Reeves mulled over it and smiled. If this was all the cops had on him, he had called his lawyer for nothing. "You know how many of these we sell in a year? This is very popular item. In fact if you spend a certain amount of money in the store, we add a half dozen of these to your order as a gift." He dropped it to the table. "I could know more identify who this belongs to than I could raise the dead."

"Really? Interesting choice of words. Did you know Katherine Bedrosian?"

"Wasn't she the reporter that was found dead?"

"You know a guy named Joe Mannix?"

Reeves answered after a moment. He was reminded of Leigh's warning. "Not personally."

"Where were you last Saturday night?"

"Last Saturday night? Now let me see . . ."

Jacoby placed a pen and paper in front of Reeves. "Names and telephone numbers."

Reeves made no move to pick up the pen. He was trying to think past the fear growing in his chest.

"Am I under arrest?"

"Possibly."

"That handkerchief and this . . ." Jacoby pulled a three-quarter full chloroform bottle from the box. "was found at the crime scene. You own the Sheila. That's where her body was found. Your boy, Bernie Moss, paid a wino to buy this."

"I'm asking again, am I under arrest?"

"No, you can go." Jacoby carefully repacked the evidence in the box. "But don't leave town." Jacoby left Reeves alone.

Reeves was positive that he had only used enough chloroform on that reporter to knock her out for an hour or two. He only wanted to get photographs of the pages of her notebook because that stupid bitch, Flora Moore, couldn't manage it. He didn't trust Cully or Bernie to do the job without messing it up.

His mind raced. Were any witnesses to his coming and going at the Sheila. He had been careful to come in the back entrance and avoid the lobby even though there were only drunks and a desk clerk to worry about. He knew the clerk wouldn't say anything, but he couldn't be sure that there wasn't some other eyes in the lobby. Eyes that couldn't be bought.

Leigh's words haunted him. The price for the Bryce Hunter films was suddenly very high.

Mannix settled back in the driver's seat. He had taken Gunn's advice and dressed up. Shaving was still a problem, but in a few days he would be back to normal. He hadn't had on a tie since he graduated Western Pacific, since Costa Verde. He let that drop from his mind. He wasn't going there again if he could help it. He wanted to remember the good times and let the bad time disappear into the fog of time. Change how you react to what it did to you. He had made that promise to himself at the pistol range. He knew he could do this.

Mannix opened the glove compartment of the Thunderbird. After the overlook he had returned Gunn's spare pistol. He took it out again and held it in his hand. His hands wanted to shake, but he willed them to steady. He still didn't want to use a gun, but if he had to . . . He put the gun in his waistband in the small of his back. Everybody wore guns in shoulder harness or in a belt holster; he had neither. He wiggled around a bit to make it feel more comfortable. Later he would practice reaching for the gun. Wouldn't do him any good to have it there and not be able to reach it.

What he couldn't believe was the phone in the Thunderbird. To the right of the steering wheel and attached underneath the dash was the car phone. He had heard of this but didn't know of anyone who actually had one. Gunn gave him the number and told him to not abuse it.

The first thing he had to do was find Lenny before anybody else did. Gunn turned him on to one of his information sources.

The bell dinged when Mannix opened the door to Humphrey's Pool Room. Two of the three pool tables were occupied by the Friday afternoon crowd. He scanned the players; he wasn't sure who Babby was. Gunn had described him as the best dresser in the place. Joe suddenly glimpsed the crown of a hat moving by itself. A small man in a porkpie hat and a custom tailored blue sharkskin suit with a black shirt pulled a small box by rope from around the far end of the farthest pool table. Gunn hadn't mentioned Babby was a little person. Something Mannix noted for himself, as a private investigator, you had to know a lot of different kinds of people.

Mannix found a vacant seat on the shoe shine stand and watched as Babby ran the table and collected his winnings. The loser slunk away and Babby began setting up the table for the next sucker.

Mannix walked over. "Gunn sent me," Joe said.

Babby looked up from his shot. "So?"

"He said you could help me find a guy named Lenny McAvoy?"

"Never heard of him. Who are you?" Babby aimed and blasted the cue ball into the pack. He stepped off his box and pulled it to the other side of the table.

"Mannix. Joe Mannix."

Babby studied the balls on the table. "There a reason you're interested in this Lenny McAvoy?"

"Heard of the Bryce Hunter films?"

"Everybody's heard of 'em, nobody can find 'em."

"Lenny's got them."

Babby stopped lining up his shot and leaned on his cue stick. "Can't help you." Babby went back to studying the table. "You play pool?"

"When it's necessary."

Babby pointed to the cue rack on the wall; Joe grabbed a cue. Babby re-racked the balls. "You break. Eightball."

Joe broke and the balls scattered. He didn't see a shot, but Babby did. Without hesitating, he ran the table with the stripes. With one ball left to win he looked at Joe, didn't aim, and missed. Joe's turn. The first ball sailed into the corner pocket. Another and then another. Mannix got down to the eight ball and missed. He left Babby an easy shot on purpose. Babby sunk the eight ball.

"What does he look like?"

"Caucasian, a little shorter than me, on the baggy side, about 160 pounds, brown hair, and wears a newsboy cap."

"Not much to go on."

"Gunn said you didn't need much."

"Where can I get ahold of you?" Babby asked.

Joe realized he didn't have any business cards. Definitely not a good idea to give him the number to the Y. "You got Gunn's car phone number?"

"Yeah."

"That or Mother's." Joe laid a fifty on the table. Before it had a chance to kiss the felt it was in Babby's pocket.

"I'll be in touch."

"Another fifty if you call me back today."

Babby nodded; the urgency was noted.

Mannix dropped his cigarette to the sidewalk and smashed it with his foot. He shifted the rolled up newspaper to his other hand as he pushed through the ornate brass-handled door of the Mayfield. It was starting to get dark at 5 PM, earlier in the evening than when he dropped Kathy off almost a week ago.

"Good evening, sir," the desk clerk said. She waited with polite attention.

"Were you on duty the night when she came in here?" Mannix showed the clerk the front page of Tuesday's Los Angeles Observer.

The clerk rolled her eyes. "Who are you?"

"An interested party." Mannix unfurled and flicked open a page of the newspaper to reveal a ten dollar bill.

The clerk sniffed. "Not interested enough."

Mannix moved another page to reveal another ten dollar bill.

"I told the police I really didn't notice her. She didn't stop at the desk. She knew exactly where she was going. Straight to the elevator."

"Do you have any other guests you don't notice?"

"Maybe."

Mannix took the cue and displayed another ten tucked in the society page. "Maybe what floor the elevator stopped on?"

"Not really. There's a back entrance that our guests use when why wish to be discreet."

"Yeah, where?"

"It's over there." She pointed to a hallway on Mannix's right. "The employees' entrance. A few of our more shy patrons use it. Service elevator is further down to the right. Leads to the back alley."

"So nobody monitors that entrance."

"Only employees taking a smoke break."

"Like you?"

"Smoking's bad for my complexion."

Mannix played with the newspaper. He patted it against the desk and surveyed the empty lobby.

"Who's on duty at night besides you? A maintenance man, maid?"

"We have a couple who live on the premises in return for being available for nighttime emergencies."

"How about a bell hop?"

"People arriving at this time of night usually carry their own bags." She leaned closer to Mannix. "I'm off at midnight."

Mannix handed her the paper and looked around again. "Don't announce that you've been talking to me. Midnight, eh?"

The clerk winked as she placed the paper under the overhang of the sign-in desk.

Mannix went down the hallway. He passed the service elevator as he arrived in the alley behind the hotel. He pulled out a smoke and inspected the area. He looked past the dumpsters and the trash bins down the alleyway to Central. He smoked and watched the cars cruise by. At the end of his cigarette break, he counted three empty taxis among the traffic passing by the alley entrance. He walked around the hotel to the car.

Saragoza lounged against the fender of his Red & White company cab as he watched a pale blue Thunderbird slide in behind it. A toothpick danced between his lips. He smiled when he saw the driver get out.

"Que pasa, Jose, looking good. Where'd you get the wheels?"

Joe had gotten used to Saragoza using the Spanish version his name; he did that to everybody. He towered over Mannix's six foot, one inch frame. Joe often wondered how he managed to slip so gracefully behind the wheel of his cab.

"Gunn doesn't like slobs driving his car."

Saragoza snorted. "If that was my car, you wouldn't be driving it at all." His eyes lingered over the curves of the fenders. "You working for him?"

"Mostly helping out. Need some information."

"What else is new?"

"Saturday night between 10 P.M. and 11 P.M., anybody pick up a fare, woman, late twenties, dark hair at the Mayfield and drop her off at the Sheila."

"Why you need to know?"

"It's personal."

"How personal?"

"She was a friend of mine."

Saragoza chewed on his toothpick. "About five foot six, wearing a gray suit?"

"Yeah!"

Saragoza chewed a bit more. "I did." He continued. "Saw her picture in the Observer. Decided better to keep my mouth shut."

"Why? If you have information that'll help find her killer . . ."

"I'm not interested in winding up on a slab like her, Jose."

"Then why you telling me?"

Saragoza spat out the toothpick "'Cause you've always been straight with me. And I can trust you."

"What can you tell me?"

"Rainy night. That's probably why she took a cab instead of walking. The Sheila's only about ten blocks away. I couldn't figure why she wanted to go there. She wasn't dressed like a hooker. At that time of night that's usually who I'm taking there. She came out of the alley behind the Mayfield. I was almost ran over her. Before I could say I'm off duty, she jumped in. She was fidgety, you know, nervous. She told me to take her to the Sheila. I was going by there anyway, so no big deal. On the way I noticed a car following me. Dark colored, musta been a cop car."

"Why a cop car?"

"It had one of those long aerials on the back fender like they have for their radios. I got the tingling, you know, on the back of my neck. My hairs were standing at attention."

"Did you see the driver?"

"Nope, decided it wouldn't be healthy to. I split as soon as I dropped her off. 'Cause I was supposed to be on my way in, I didn't write it in my log. Good thing I didn't."

"Anything else?"

"Nah. If anybody else had asked, I wouldn't have even copped to it."

Joe reached in his pocket.

Saragoza stopped his hand. "Was she a close friend?"

"Sorta, we went to the same high school. I know her family."

"Keep your cash. You can do something for me some day."

"That's a promise."

"Get any dings on that T-bird, miho, if Gunn don't shoot you, I will." Saragoza opened his cab door. "So you're going to be a private eye now."

"Just playing it by ear."

"Don't let your 'ear', get your head in the wringer." Saragoza drove off.

As Joe drove by the Y, he saw Art's car parked across the street. He's here? He realized it must be 6 PM and one of their days to play half-court basketball. He wheeled about and headed for the court. Squeaks and bounces sounded on the wood floor. As Joe entered, a ball flew toward him. He positioned himself under the basket and passed the ball to Art.

"You're not dressed for basketball." Art bounced the ball.

"Helping out Gunn." Joe cleared his throat. "He told me if I'm working with him, I need to dress better."

"So you're working with him now?"

"Just until he can get back on his feet."

"Yeah."

They fell into their old routine of playing Horse, but Art shot first. They went back and forth until they even at four shots apiece.

Just as Joe is lining up his shot, one of the attendants arrived with a dust mop.

"Hey, no street shoes on the court!" The attendant yelled.

Joe looked down at his loafers and smiled at the interruption. He passed the ball back to Art. "Yeah, no street shoes." Art joined him as he left the court.

"Monday, the usual time?"

Joe nodded. Outside the Y, Art whistled when he saw Joe get into Gunn's car.

"Gunn's letting you drive his car?"

"Somebody's got to do it."

Art crossed the street. He noticed that after Joe pulled away another car did too, a dark blue sedan with a long aerial. As it passed him, Art recognized the driver, Jerry Delaney out of the Central Precinct.

Evening and still no word from Babby. Mannix sat in the T-bird on Beacon and Fifth in San Pedro outside of Mother's. He cursed himself for not giving Babby the phone number to the Buck. Now he would either need to sit in the car and wait on the call from Babby or go into Mother's. The sky had clumps of clouds waiting to spoil this dry spell. Mother's it is.

Mannix stepped into Mother's. The red and white plaid tablecloths, the covered chairs. The musicians were returning to the bandstand directly in front of him, the bar to his left. He watched the bartender ring up a drink on a cash register that had probably seen Prohibition. The older woman sitting on a stool near the register watching the crowd was probably Mother.

"Who are you?"

"Joe Mannix."

Mother's eyes narrowed at his name. "You're the one who got Pete shot."

He took a breath."Guilty."

Mother stood. It wasn't often that a woman stood eye-to-eye with Joe Mannix. "Find yourself another bar," she said.

Barney arrived and blocked Mannix in. He wiped his hands on his cloth apron.

"I'm sorry about what happened to Gunn. I"m trying to make up for it. I'm doing his legwork while he's recovering at home. Besides I told Babby he could reach me here with some information. I can't leave."

"Go sit by the phone. Over there." Mother pointed to a table next to the phone on the wall.

"Sure."

Barney stepped back to let Mannix pass. He looked to Mother. "Watch him," she said.

Mannix sat near the phone. The musicians returned and began warming up their fingers and lungs. Edie Hart emerged from a door in the back. She smiled at the crowd as she took her place behind the microphone. Her wrap around dress did her figure proud. Mannix could understand Gunn choosing her over the Duchess. He saw her face frown when she saw him.

Barney returned to mingling with Mother's regulars. Mannix's cigarette merged with the already smoke-dense air. He wanted to order a drink, but Mother probably told Barney to poison it.

The band played the intro in a slow Latin style to the jazz standard _Yesterdays_.

_Yesterdays, yesterdays_

_Days I knew as happy and sweet_

_Sequestered days_

He remembered the melody from the concert, but Dizzy's version had been an uptempo instrumental. He liked Edie's slow and sultry rendition better.

Barney plopped a mug of beer on Mannix's table. "Bad for business when someone's sitting at a table without a drink," he said and ambled away.

Mannix sipped and settled back to listen to Edie.

_Olden days, golden days_

_Days of mad romance and love_

_Then gay youth was mine_

Near the end of her song the phone rang. He jumped to get it.

"Mannix?" the voice on the other end questioned.

"Yeah?"

"I got what you need."

"Be right there." Mannix hung up, gulped more of his beer and put a couple of bucks on the counter. "Thanks," he said to Barney. As he left Mother's the song ended and the applause started.

Jacoby recreated his interview with Reeves in his mind. He leaned back in his chair and rocked. The motion soothed his brain when he was trying to puzzle out his homicide cases. Reeves had been happy to joust with him until he brought up the chloroform bottle. The bottle didn't place Reeves at the scene. He couldn't prove Reeves had ever seen it. Everything was strictly circumstantial. What was Reeves' motive? The Hunter films?

Blaney had shown up and admitted defeat with Pete's find of Bedrosian's notebook. Seemed that she was using a code in addition to the Reporter's Notehand. Earlier Jacoby handed it over to Lee Jones at SID. Let him have his experts take a whack at it.

He was also surprised and annoyed by Deputy DA Leigh's insistence on a briefing. Not like he had a suspect to charge. He put that in his brain to stew along with wondering if someone else could have entered the room later.

Someone knocked on his door. Before he could say come in, Malcolm opened the door.

"What?" He noticed that Malcolm was dressed in gray sweats with perspiration marking his armpits.

"I left Joe Mannix at the Y and I saw something you might be interested in." Malcolm stepped closer to Jacoby's desk. "I saw Jerry Delaney tailing Joe."

"What?" Jacoby bolted upright in his chair.

"Yeah, I don't know if he saw me or not, but as soon as Joe drove away, Delaney was on his tail."

Jacoby picked up his phone and dialed a friend of his at Central Division. He knew Delaney came over from the county. So far he hadn't heard anything either way about him. Being a former Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff made Delaney suspect in Jacoby's eyes.

"Hey. Mike, Lou, what's Jerry Delaney up to?"

"The usual. We got him working burglaries. He pulls his weight when he's here."

"Is he working today?"

"In fact, he called in sick. Is this something I shouldn't know about? Why the sudden interest? Something up?"

"Nothing much. Just asking. Thanks, Mike."

"Yeah, Lou."

Jacoby dialed another number. "This is Sgt. Jacoby. Did Officer Delaney sign out a vehicle anytime in the last week?" Jacoby waited for the light duty officer assigned to the motorpool to check through the sign out log. "Okay, thanks." He turned to Malcolm.

"So what's going on with Delaney?" Malcolm asked.

"He called in sick and hasn't checked out a city vehicle in a week. He's our county connection."

"What?"

"Pete thought the guy who shot him at the overlook was driving a county unmarked."

"What's Delaney got to do with this?"

"Don't know, doesn't figure."

"Do you know anybody at the LA County Sheriff's Department who's reasonably honest?"

"Damn few."

"Delaney one of them?"

"Might have thought so until now. Makes me wonder why he transferred to the LAPD"

"I'm sure Chief Parker had him checked out before he approved the transfer.

"Parker's not perfect. Delaney could be a plant."

"Yeah, but who planted him? And why?"

Jacoby's phone rang; he listened and said, "Thanks," as he replaced the handset. "C'mon." He grabbed his hat. "Babby's got some information for us." He led Malcolm out of the door. "It's about Mannix."

Babby was waiting under a street lamp on the sidewalk when Jacoby and Art arrived. "What you got for me?" Jacoby asked.

"That Mannix fella Pete's working with came by to pick up an address on Lenny McAvoy. When he left, I saw him hustled into Macklin Reeves' car."

"You sure it was Reeves?" Malcolm asked.

"He's the only person I know that owns a black stretch Chrysler Imperial. Besides." Babby pointed to the Thunderbird parked across the street. "You think Mannix'd leave a car like that in this neighborhood willingly?"

"Where's McAvoy?"

"He's in a dump over in Bunker Hill – 529 West Third Street, the Lima Apartments."

"Thanks, Babby," Jacoby said.

Buzz! Buzz! Jacoby knew that sound. "Answer it," he said to Malcolm. "It's Pete's car phone."

Malcolm hopped out and put the phone to his ear. "Yeah. . . don't know . . ." Jacoby saw Art searching around the dash. "No keys . . .okay."

Before Malcolm asked, Jacoby pulled a key from a ring and tossed it to him. Jacoby saw the surprised look on Malcolm's face. "What? Edie's got a spare too."

"Gunn wants me to pick him up."

"Okay, go get him and meet me at the station. I'll pick you both up there."

Jacoby radioed R&I for Reeves' car registration, then he put out an APB for the its location. Do not approach, location only. By the time Jacoby picked up Gunn and Malcolm, he'd already dispatched a car to Lenny's address and received a sighting on Reeves' car turning onto Mulholland going west from Laurel Canyon.

Delaney shadowed the black Chrysler Imperial onto Mulholland. Twice going around curves he'd doused his headlights long enough for them to think they weren't being followed. Good thing he knew the road well. When he was a deputy, he patrolled here.

He listened with half an ear to the police band. When he heard the chatter pick up, he turned up the volume.

"_All points bulletin. 1955 Black Chrysler Imperial,__Ocean-William-Adam-7-7-0__. Location only. Repeat-location only. Do not approach. Notify King-41 on Tac2."_

The message repeated. Delaney's eyes swiveled around the road. Reeves' car was right in front of him. He had a mind to change to Tac2, but then he thought it might be better just to get the hell out of there. He prayed no one coming from the other direction noticed him driving a county unmarked.

The Imperial slowed as it hit the dirt and gravel of the Hollywood Bowl Overlook. Its headlights swept the darkness. As his luck would have it, no other cars were visiting tonight.

Cully shoved Mannix out of the car. "Told you I'd seen you again, punk." Cully dropped Mannix to the ground with a punch in the gut. One of his already bruised rib give way. His breath was in snatches

"I hear from my sources that you're trying to frame me for that reporter's murder," Reeves said. "I thought we had a deal. You bring me the Hunter films and I let you live."

Mannix struggled to his feet. He knew Cully was in front of him with Reeves to his left in the headlights' glare. Where was Bernie?

"I told you before . . . don't have anything to do . . . with that. I'm not the guy you want to talk to," Mannix said.

"Who should we be talking to?"

Mannix pressed his mouth closed.

"Loosen his lips." Reeves told Cully.

Bernie reached for Mannix from behind like the last time. Before Bernie could get a lock on his arms, Mannix pivoted, grabbed Bernie and tossed him into Cully knocking both of them down. He reached behind his jacket and yanked at the butt of the pistol. Before he couldn't get it out, Cully clamped him in a bear hug. Stabbing pain from his ribs. Mannix rammed his foot down on top of Cully's. Cully released him, grabbed his foot, and howled in pain.

Mannix staggered a few steps away from the headlights. He heard moans. Probably Bernie. Cully rushed him. Mannix managed to untangle the pistol from his belt. Mannix fired and fired again. Cully fell face forward into the gravel.

Mannix stumbled a step and doubled over. The pain in is ribs screamed at him. Shallow breaths, keep breathing. He straightened up and paced.

Through the fog of pain, he heard an engine roar. Reeves! Headlights swerved catching him in its beams. He jumped aside as the Imperial missed him by inches. Pain forgotten, he aimed the pistol and fired at the receding taillights. He saw the reverse lights pop on and race toward him. He fired again. He hit the rear window but the glass didn't shatter. Bulletproof ? He went for the rear tires. Pop, Pop. A tire exploded sending the car twisting to a stop. He ran and jerked open the door dragging Reeves out of the driver's seat.

"You know how many bullets I got left? I don't," Mannix yelled. "You're gonna find out." Mannix forced the barrel into Reeves' temple and squeezed. Click. He remembered how loud the sound of an empty chamber could be.

"Are you crazy?" Reeves struggled against Mannix's grip.

"You killed Kathy!"

"I didn't." Reeves held up his hands. "I swear!"

"Then who did?" Joe spun the cylinder again and held against the gangster's temple so hard it left a mark. "Who did?"

"I – don't – know!"

Click. The cylinder spun again. Mannix wrenched Reeves' face close to his. He put the gun barrel in Reeves' mouth.

"Joe, stop!"

His trigger finger tensed. Just a little more pressure . . .

"Joe!"

Mannix hadn't heard the sirens or the squad cars skid to a stop a few feet from him. He blinked at the headlights beams and people surrounding him. He glared at Reeves and released him.

Jacoby came from the shadows and escorted Reeves to one of the other squad cars.

"Is that mine?" Gunn asked.

Mannix handed him the .38. Gunn placed it inside the black sling holding his wounded shoulder immobile. Mannix slumped against the Imperial's trunk. Art reached in and turned off the Imperial's motor.

"I could have killed him, Art."

"But you didn't."

"But I could have."

"_But you didn't!_"

"Only because you and Jacoby and Gunn showed up."

"Look, Joe, you were kidnapped and beaten half senseless. You just got a little crazy defending yourself, that's all. That's what my report will say and I'm sure Jacoby's will say the same."

"I wanted to kill him because I know he killed Kathy."

"Leave it to Jacoby. Let him do his job," Gunn said.

"He was there. In that room. I know it!"

"If we can shake Cully or Bernie loose from him, maybe we'll get him yet. Why don't you get in the car and we'll get you to a doctor. I got something to do," Art said.

Gunn guided Mannix to Jacoby's squad car. He moved slowly. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the aches from his injuries returned.

"You gonna be alright?" Gunn asked.

"No."

"That's what I like, an honest man."

Art watched his friend limp away. This whole thing was a mess. It was his turn to make it messier.

Art spied Jacoby busy with directing the uniformed officers in cordoning off the area. Art marched over to the squad car Jacoby parked Reeves in. Reeves glanced up as Art opened the door.

"I want him arrested. You saw what he did," Reeves said. "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Patrolman Two Arthur George Malcolm, badge number 1517. I'm letting you know right now that if anything ever happens to Joe Mannix, I'm coming for you."

"Why would I do anything to him?" Reeves swept the dirt and dust from his clothing.

"Doesn't matter why, just don't." Art strode away.

` "Officer Malcolm, I'll have your badge. You threatened me!"

Malcolm charged back and shoved his face close to the gangster's "I don't threaten. I promise." Fear flashed cross Reeves' face; that's what Malcolm wanted. He wanted Reeves to think twice about any retaliation against Joe. That might be enough to keep Joe alive. For how long, he didn't know.

Jacoby ambled over and did an inquiring look from Malcolm to Reeves. "Is there a problem here?"

Art glared at Reeves. "No, Sgt. Jacoby, no problem."

When Delaney returned home, he reviewed his options. The Observer's front page photograph of Katherine Bedrosian stared at him. Leigh had him follow her off and on for a couple of weeks.

He had been on pins and needles since transferring from the Sheriff's Department to the LAPD. He had the reputation, undeserved, as one of the few honest deputies. He wasn't really; he was just picky about what he got himself involved in. Now it was murder. He didn't do it, but he had a good idea who maybe did.

He had to decide who's side he was on. Usually he picked himself. With Leigh he wasn't so sure anymore. Leigh had smooth-talked him into the transfer. He had to admit he enjoyed the fact that Chief Parker didn't know as much as he thought he did.

When he had called Leigh to tell him where she finally landed, he'd been told to go home, but he didn't. He stuck around to see what would happen next. He moved his car two blocks away to First. When he returned he noticed Reeves and his goons sneaking out the rear entrance. He found a vantage point in the lobby right before Leigh arrived. Dressed down for the occasion but still recognizable. Whatever happened Leigh hadn't stayed long. That made Delaney think that Leigh had stumbled on her already dead body. He looked shaken when he left. Delaney decided to keep this to himself for now.

Victor Fortune very rarely called his people to his home, but this time his personal touch was needed. He left Macklin Reeves to stew in his den while he wined and dined his east coast brethren. Refilling his brandy snifter Fortune excused himself the drawing room and strode across the hallway. Reeves rose from his seat when he entered.

"Mr. Fortune."

"Please, stay seated. This is an informal meeting." Fortune took a seat opposite Reeves. "Leave Joseph Mannix alone."

"What?"

"I don't repeat myself. He has friends in the right places. Anything that happens to him will happen to you."

"But, Mr. Fortune . . ."

"I don't want any more trouble with the LAPD than I already have. Capiche?"

"Yes, sir."

"Lee."

The Mafia soldier by the door appeared next to Reeves and escorted him from the room. A moment later a door from the other end of the room opened. Y. Franklin Leigh ambled into the room and seated himself on the davenport.

"Is that what you wanted?" Fortune asked.

Leigh nodded.

"Now, let's talk about the Hunter film you have." Victor Fortune swirled his brandy and sipped.

Saragoza swung to the curb outside of Mother's and dropped off Art Malcolm. Art had heard of the place. It wasn't on his beat and he wasn't that fond of jazz. He did his drinking and bitching at the Shield, the cop bar on First.

Art hadn't seen Joe since he came back from Kathy's funeral. He didn't even show up for their last basketball session. Mac didn't know where he was. He still had his room at the Y, but he never seemed to be there. Finally Art had asked a few cabbies and found Saragoza. Saragoza found Joe at Mother's.

"Thanks." Art said to Saragoza.

"Anytime, Arturo. Take care of Jose."

"I will."

So this was Gunn's hangout. He pictured Gunn's hangout as more swank. To him Mother's was a dump on the wrong side of San Pedro. He smelt the salt air and the fishing boats.

Art entered Mother's. The Monday evening crowd was a few patrons and the murmur of too much alcohol. No band, no Edie, no Gunn. Joe Mannix slumped at a small table in the corner with his back to the front door. Art walked over to a woman camped on a stool near the cash register end of the bar.

"Are you Mother?" Art asked.

"Who are you?"

"A friend of Joe's. How long has he been here drinking?" Art asked.

"Since we opened," Mother said.

"Why didn't you stop him?"

"He'd go somewhere else. At least here we can keep an eye on him. He's not making any noise and he's not bothering anybody. Besides," Mother said. "If Pete can forgive him, so can we. Joe's among friends here."

"Thanks."

Mother nodded and returned to her accounting.

Art approached his friend. He had never seen Joe drunk. A couple of drinks, yes; seven eighths of a bottle of Chivas Regal, no. Joe glanced up from his glass, his eyes red enough to do a Bloody Mary proud.

"Hey, Art."

"Joe, how you doing?" Art slid into the chair across from his friend. The cuts on his face were no longer covered with gauze and tape; the bruises had faded. He was more worried about were the scars he couldn't see.

"I'm fine. Real Fine." Joe stared at his empty glass. "Need another drink." He grabbed the bottle; its lip wavered in the vicinity of the glass. Art steadied his hand.

"Thanks. Barney, a glass for my friend, Art . . . what's your poison? Wait minute, I remember. Bourbon for my friend."

Art signaled 'no' to Barney. "So Jacoby says you're thinking about becoming a private detective. Gonna work with Gunn? Put some of that pre-law degree to work?"

"Nope, Gunn works alone. Said he'd get me on with a guy he knows – Harry Forrest. Because I don't have a law enforcement background, gonna hafta work with a licensed PI for about three years."

"You could always join the LAPD for that experience." Art watched as Joe struggled to bring the shot glass to his lips.

"Nah, tired of uniforms."

"You know that Hunter film disappeared from Property. Jacoby's thinking Delaney might have had something to do with it. SID still working on that code in Kathy's notebook. Lenny's dead and no sign of the rest of the film. Couldn't get anything out of Cully or Bernie about Kathy's murder. Cully'll be out of the hospital in about another week and Bernie will be on crutches for couple of months. You know, you could press charges for kidnapping and assault."

"I don't want him in jail for beating me up. I want him in jail for Kathy's murder. I promised her father."

"There's no statute of limitations on murder. Jacoby's working on it and he won't let it go. He wants Reeves just as bad as you do." Art noted Joe's bleary eyes trying to focus.

Joe upturned the bottle. A drop leaked out. "Hey, Barney, another bottle."

Art shook his head and Barney stayed behind the bar.

"Maybe I should take you home."

"Don't want to go home. Nobody to go home to." Joe slammed the empty glass on the table. "You call the Y a home?"

"You can come home with me."

"Nah, don't want to mess you up with Helen."

"Let me worry about Helen." Art moved the bottle away from the edge of the table. "Joe, what happened in Costa Verde?"

"Nothing."

"You think I believe that?"

"Why do you care? I don't care. Not any more do I care."

"You wanted to talk."

"We're talking."

"Yeah, we're talking, but you're not saying anything."

Joe blinked at the empty bottle of Chivas Regal; his eyes unfocused. A shiver rippled through him. Joe's grip on the shot glass was white knuckled. He pulled a crumpled ticket from his pocket and glowered at it.

"There was this girl . . . ," his voice trailed off into the memory. ". . . you know, Art, there's always a girl. . ."

The End


End file.
